Intervention by Margaret P.
(With thanks to my beta, Terri Derr)
Chapter 4 (Words: 1,754)
Not feeling quite as cocky after the fracas as he made out, Johnny took a siesta. An hour later with no angry demands arriving from the landlord to have him or Manuel thrown out, he breathed easy again and set out back to the laundry. The shirt was spotless. Huan had even redone his repairs so the bullet hole was barely visible. Marvelling at the tiny stitches instead of watching where he was going, he nearly walked straight out in front of a passing cart, but he eventually made it to the bath house in one piece.
The salt-and-pepper haired proprietor exchanged his money for a towel and pointed him towards a bath. His cubicle was one of eight timber stalls filling the centre of a barn-like room, two rows of four, back to back. Being on the end, it only had wooden partitions on two sides. The other two sides were curtained. Glancing down at the openings along the bottom of the wooden screens, he could see a dirty pair of boots sticking out from the neighbouring cubicle nearest the door, but the other corner cubicle seemed empty.
Hanging his hat on one of two hooks provided, Johnny pulled the curtains closed while he stripped, throwing his shirt over the side of the tin bath. He shook the rest of his clothes free of dust and folded them, making a neat pile on the bench seat and placing his freshly laundered shirt on top. Ignoring the second hook, he arranged his gun belt between his clothes and an enamel tray of cleaning items sitting on the bath-side of the bench. He wasn't expecting trouble, but he'd learned to keep his Colt within reach.
Wrapping the towel around his middle, he stuck his head through the curtain. "Ready, señor."
With their sleeves rolled up, the proprietor and a boy about his own age began hauling hot water from the large copper in the corner. When the bath tub was half full they added buckets of cold from an inside pump until the old guy was satisfied with the temperature. Johnny tested it with his foot and nodded. The proprietor and boy left, drawing the curtains closed behind them, and Johnny climbed in, dropping the towel on the floor and easing himself down into the steaming water. Dang, it felt good.
He slid under the water and re-emerged hair dripping. Grabbing the soap, he washed his hair first, and then used cloth, soap and pig bristle brush to scrub away the weeks of grime and stale sweat. He even scraped the razor over his chin and had the satisfaction of seeing a few short whiskers in the discarded soap. Finally, he reached for his dirty shirt and washed it in the bath water, wringing it out and hanging it back over the side. The bathroom assistant brought him fresh water half way through to rinse his hair and to warm up the cooling water, and for the last ten minutes, Johnny just lay back and soaked.
Eventually, muscles relaxed and water cooling, he decided it was time to go. Standing up, he retrieved the towel and stepped out of the tub onto the hessian sack that acted as a mat. He dried himself quickly, and put on his calzoneras and socks. Then he wrung out his shirt again, and rolled it tight in the towel to get rid of most of the water. He went to put the roll on the bench in place of his gun belt.
And his rig was gone.
Spinning around, he came face to face with a smirking Vicente Montero. "Looking for this Madrid?"
"I don't want any trouble, Montero." Johnny eyed his gun as it dangled in its holster from the Mexican's hand. The bastard would have a bullet in him before he could touch it.
"Well, ain't that a pity." Montero glanced sideways and the other curtain was pulled roughly open by Silva, their two friends at his elbow. "We've been finding out about you. Rumour has it a baby gunhawk called Johnny Madrid got the better of a wily old gambler who used to visit El Paso del Norte a few years back. No great loss, but you need to learn a little respect for your betters, Madrid. Seeing as you're handy with a gun, we'll teach you a lesson with our fists." Montero nodded to his friends. They undid their gun belts and handed them to the bathhouse proprietor hovering in the background. Montero did the same. "Stay out of it, if you know what's good for you."
The proprietor backed away, and Montero and his pals closed in.
Johnny's eyes darted, looking for a means of escape. Giving up, he feinted left and dived right. It won him an extra yard or two towards the exit before he was tackled, slammed against a partition, and held firm until Montero's knuckles connected with his jaw and his stomach. Stumbling sideways, he could see his retreat was blocked so he stepped forward swinging. He bloodied Silva's nose before the biggest of the other men punched him in the guts again. Doubled over, he was easy meat for the next man to break a broom over his back. A right cross sent him crashing into the tin bath his neighbour had hurriedly vacated and soapy water washed the floor.
Then Montero came at him with a knife, grinning like the cat that had trapped the mouse and twisting the five inch, double-edged blade in his hand as though he meant business. Johnny thought it was all over, but suddenly someone or something shoved Silva smack into Montero, sending him off balance. Johnny dove out of harm's way, shimmying under a partition. Manuel was in the passageway between the wall and the stalls, chucking one of the other men onto the copper. Gracias a Dios, but where had he come from?
No time to work it out. As Johnny got to his feet, Montero entered the cubicle, followed by Silva.
"Take care of the dummy. Madrid is mine."
Clutching at his middle, Johnny staggered, edging around the stall trying to keep distance between him and Montero. Maybe he'd broken a rib; it hurt like blazes. Montero had lost the knife, but with hardly a bruise, he would still pack a powerful punch. Manuel had two men hanging off his back. He was trying to dislodge them, but the guy he'd flung onto the copper was coming up behind him with a bucket.
"Manuel! Watch out!"
There was a sickening crunch followed by the splintering of wood; the bucket connected with Manuel's head as Montero's fist sent Johnny crashing through the partition into the curtains on the other side of the next stall.
For a second or two, Johnny lay face down in a pool of water, tangled in the curtain. Then spitting blood, he raised his head. The door was in sight, but he had to blink several times to see it clearly. As his senses returned, he rolled onto his side.
His heart sank. Manuel was on his knees, a stunned look on his face, but their attackers were still on their feet.
Johnny groaned as Montero's sneering face loomed above him.
"Not as tough as you thought, mestizo." The Mexican put his boot into Johnny's belly. "Now do you know who's in charge?"
Gasping for air, Johnny rolled onto his back. And remembered something.
Montero stood over him, cleaning his finger nails. Damn—he'd got the knife back.
"One last thing, half breed—so you never forget your place again."
Montero stepped forward. As he did so, Johnny slid his hand down his spine and under his belt into the extra pocket he had sewn into the back of his calzoneras. The knife flashed as Montero reached out, but when he grabbed Johnny's ear, Johnny drew the little Deringer and fired.
The blade clattered to the floor, and Montero snatched at his leg. Falling back, he screeched like a stuck pig, as Johnny escaped into the passage.
Johnny headed for the doorway. It took several seconds for the other men to realize what had happened and give chase, but it was all too late. Johnny's spirits soared and then crashed as he and then his pursuers came face to face with the rifle barrels of the Guardia Rural, the bath house assistant grinning in the background.
"Drop your weapons."
"They started it." Johnny took a step back; one hand up as he placed the Deringer on the floor. He might as well save his breath; no prizes for knowing who the law in this town would believe.
But the Rurales let him rinse off the blood and put on his miraculously still-clean shirt and boots before taking him to jail. They confiscated all the guns and knives, and all six men involved in the fight were escorted to the lock-up, Montero half carried by two of his friends. Clearly, from his loud complaints his injuries weren't life threatening.
The men were separated as soon as they arrived at the adobe jailhouse. As he was taken away, Johnny heard the sergeant ordering a doctor for Montero and messages to be sent to the families of those who admitted to having any. Johnny was put in a cell on his own, six feet by four with a barred window at one end, a worn blanket and a pot to piss in.
At nightfall a guard bought him water, beans and a lump of dry bread.
"When will I get out?"
"Juez Martinez will decide on Wednesday."
That was what—five days away?
The guard re-locked the iron door, his face visible through the grille.
"Are the others still here?"
"The boy who used to work in the cantina is in the main corral."
"What about Montero and friends?"
"No. Their papis have taken them home." The sarcasm in the guard's voice gave Johnny a glimmer of hope.
"Well, why can't Manuel and I go too?" He knew it was a slim chance.
"Do you have dinero? No, I did not think so. But do not worry, muchacho; the sons of the wealthy must appear before the magistrate also. Perhaps you can persuade Juez Martinez that the pistolero, Johnny Madrid, was an innocent, and the bullet you put in the leg of his nephew got there by accident." The guard slid the shutter on the grille shut and guffawed all the way back to his office.
Johnny swallowed hard. Shit.