Dillinger - Jack Higgins [42]
They'd stopped work at the mine last night just before midnight because no one had the strength to continue. They should have used dynamite the way Dillinger had said. It would have long been over, one way or t'other. Rivera had sentenced them to death to save his damn gold.
Now the Indians in the mine knew something he didn't know. That was always the case when they whispered among each other.
Fallon pulled on his hat and coat, opened the door and went outside onto the porch. It was still and cold, the only sound the wind whistling through the scrub, and a strange air of desolation hung over everything. It was as if he had stumbled upon some ancient workings long since abandoned. He frowned and went up the slope.
The ore shed was empty. Usually by this time it was filled with Indians crouched together against the wall, waiting for the first shift to start. The steam engine was cold, something that was never supposed to happen. One of the watchman's regular duties was to keep it stoked during the night.
He returned to the cabin, led his horse from the shed at the rear and saddled it quickly. The first thing he noticed as he went down into the village was the absolute stillness. No smoke lifted into the sky from early-morning cooking fires and there was a complete absence of life. Not so much as a dog crossed the street as he rode up to the well and dismounted.
He opened the nearest door and peered inside. The room was bare, even the cooking pots had gone and when he touched the hearth it was cold.
He tried the next house and the next, with the same result, and returned to the well slowly. As he stood there beside his horse, a dog howled somewhere out in the desert, the sound of it echoing back from the mountains. Was it a dog? Or was it one of those Indian signals? In that first moment of irrational fear, he scrambled into the saddle and galloped out of the village.
Whatever was wrong had succeeded in frightening every man, woman and child in the place. He pushed his mount hard and half an hour later reached the head of the valley and rode down to the hacienda.
As he went across the courtyard, the door opened and Dona Clara appeared. Her hair was plaited like an Indian woman's. She seemed considerably distressed.
'Senor Fallon, thank God you are here.'
Fallon looked down at her without dismounting. 'Isn't Don Jose here?'
She shook her head. 'I'm quite alone except for Maria, my maid. My husband went up to the north pastures with Rojas while it was still dark. His herdsman brought the news that some of the cattle had been slaughtered.'
'What about the servants?'
'Usually the cook brings me coffee in bed at six. When she didn't come I decided to look for her.' She shook her head in bewilderment. 'The kitchen is cold, there is no one there. It is like a house of the dead.'
'It may be something to do with what happened yesterday at the mine,' Fallon told her. 'I'll ride down to the servants' quarters. There must be somebody who can tell us what's going on.'
He galloped round to the rear of the house and down the slope towards the cluster of adobe huts beside the stream. When he kicked open the first door and went inside it was the same story. The servants had taken their belongings with them.
As he scrambled into the saddle again, someone screamed up at the hacienda and he dug his heels into the horse's flanks and urged it up the slope. When he entered the courtyard a buckboard was standing at the front door. Dona Clara leaned with her face to the wall, and Felipe, Rivera's vaquero, stood on the steps, hat in hands.
Fallon dismounted. 'What is it?'
Felipe came down the steps slowly, his face very pale. 'See for yourself, senor.'
In the back of the buckboard behind the rear seat lay something covered with a brightly coloured Indian blanket. Fallon moved forward and drew in his breath sharply. Father Tomas gazed up at the sky, his faded