The Ripper of Storyville and Other Ben Snow Stories Page 13

  “You think he got off there?”

  “We know he did,” Ventnor said. “The Rough Riders came over from Florida on a ship called the Yucatan, and I remember him telling us he wanted to go there someday. Anyway, we heard just recently that he’s down there, all right. Organizing the Indians to take over the whole damn country. Guess he made himself a general or something.”

  One of the other two men uttered a blunt curse. “Being a private was never good enough for the likes of him.”

  Ben leaned back in his chair. “And you want him killed for this?”

  “We want him killed because he’s a yellow no-good deserter, that’s why. If the Army caught him they’d kill him, so we’re just saving them the trouble.”

  Ben cleared his throat and spoke softly, not wanting to antagonize the men. “I didn’t think the Rough Riders were actually a part of the regular Army . . .”

  “We were the First United States Volunteer Cavalry, mister, even if most all the horses did get left in Florida. We were Army, all the way.”

  “Teddy hated the name of Rough Riders at first, but it stuck.”

  They went on like that, three old soldiers, not so old, reliving a brief moment of glory only just passed into history. United now perhaps only in their quest for vengeance. Ben listened for a time and then asked, “Why did you come to me? Who told you I was a hired killer?”

  Ventnor smiled slyly. “You’re Ben Snow. Some say you’re also Billy the Kid . . .”

  “Billy’s been dead almost twenty years.”

  “Sure, sure. So you’re just Ben Snow. You’ve still got quite a reputation around the country. We heard of you as far away as New Orleans, on the way back home. You’re a killer.”

  “Maybe. But not your kind of killer.”

  Ventnor rose to his feet, and the other two followed. “Think it over. Sleep on it. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

  “You can save your breath. I don’t like Mexico anyway.”

  “Think about it.”

  Ben thought, but not very hard. It was almost by coincidence, later that night, that he found himself in the company of a federal marshal he knew slightly. The talk had drifted to Mexico, and the growing menace of roving bandits, when Ben dropped the name of Wade Chancer into the conversation.

  “Chancer. Down in Yucatan. Yeah, I’ve heard some stories in recent months. He’s lots more than a bandit chief, though. He’s a regular king down there, or a general at least. Wears medals and everything. Showed up there just after the war, and I guess he’s really got the Indians buffaloed. Biggest thing since Cortez.”

  The news interested Ben more than he showed. It interested him and raised questions in his mind. “Don’t you think those stories must be exaggerated? How could any one man so influence hundreds of Indians in just a few months?”

  “I’d like to know myself,” the marshal chuckled. “I’d try the technique at home.” Ben remembered that he had an Indian wife.

  “I might be traveling down Mexico way soon,” he told the man, not really knowing what had changed his mind, knowing only that it was a spark of the unknown, a quest for a sort of knowledge that had shaped his whole life. The army deserter who deserved to be murdered had become somehow a far more sinister character, a man of power. Men of power were always sinister to Ben, especially when the source of their power was clouded in mystery.

  And so the next morning, before dawn, he packed his horse with the necessary supplies and headed south toward the border. He didn’t bother telling Ventnor he was going. The ex-soldier would never understand why he was undertaking the trip on his own when he’d refused to do it for two thousand dollars. And perhaps Ben Snow didn’t exactly know himself. Certainly he had no intention of acting as the assassin Ventnor wanted to hire. Killing was something for other men, in another age. Usually . . .

  South of Tampico, where the country grew gradually more rugged as he approached the mountains around Mexico City, Ben seemed to find the going easier. He covered more miles each day, seeing fewer natives and none of the roving bandit bands he’d encountered further north. He passed through Veracruz, seeing in the distance the ancient Fortress of San Juan De Ulua which overlooked the harbor. This southernmost portion of the Gulf of Mexico became suddenly the Gulf of Campecho, named after a town on the Yucatan coast which he reached on the second last day of his long journey.

  It was while he was changing horses for the last time, outside Campecho, that a Mexican horseman approached him, riding slowly but purposefully. “Ah, Señor! You are from the north?”

  “Texas,” Ben admitted. “And New Mexico before that.”

  “A long ride. Many horses away.” The Mexican climbed down from his beast and walked over, resting his hand casually on the holstered revolver at his hip. Though Ben wore one too, it was still a bit startling to see an armed man approaching with seeming friendliness. Sidearms had vanished from most Texas streets some years before, and only the cowhands and lawmen were likely to carry them now.

  “It is long. Perhaps I should have come by boat. The maps show it to be a little more direct.”

  The Mexican nodded. “You seek someone here?”

  “I seek Wade Chancer.”

  “He is another day’s ride across the peninsula. I can take you there if you wish.”

  Ben held out his hand. “Name’s Ben Snow. Be happy to ride with you.”

  The Mexican nodded. “I am Antonio Yallahs. I am in the employ of Wade Chancer.”

  Well, Ben decided, if he’d made a mistake in revealing his destination, it was too late to correct it now. But if Chancer was really as powerful as the stories said, Ben would hardly have found him unannounced anyway. They drank together, in a little shack by the stables where a dirty Mexican served warm rum from a dusty amber bottle. Then, afterward, they rode—with Yallahs leading the way up a trail to the east.

  They’d been riding for some hours when the scattered brush began distinctly to take on the appearance of a jungle. The weather was warmer, and the trail they followed was all but obscured in places by the unfamiliar vines and overgrowth of a tropical climate. Ben had known nothing like it in his life, and already he was finding his heavy shirt uncomfortable against the skin.

  Sweat glistened on his forehead, and riding was so uncomfortable that he was almost thankful for the occasional stretches of thick underbrush where they were forced to dismount and lead their horses slowly on foot.

  “Is there much more of this?” Ben asked Yallahs at one point.

  “Not too much,” the Mexican answered. “We are nearing some of the ruins.”

  “You know the country well.”

  “I have lived here in Yucatan all my life. Thirty-eight years now. And my father and grandfather before me. My father used to say our family went back all the way to Bartolomeo Columbus, Christopher’s brother.”

  Ben nodded. “Up north, in my country, there are those whose ancestors came over with the Pilgrims. It’s an honor, I suppose, to be descended from the brother of Columbus.”

  Yallahs shrugged. “He was not a very good man. Christopher made him acting Governor of the West Indies, and his main achievement was the introduction of bloodhounds to track and kill any native who opposed his rule. He stole their gold and made slaves of them.”

  “You’re an educated man.”

  The Mexican laughed. “I learned about Bartolomeo on my father’s knee.”

  “But you speak good English.”

  “I was educated in Mexico City, and I have traveled to your country. It is a good land.”

  “Tell me, what is Wade Chancer trying to do down here—build an army of Indians?”

  Yallahs shrugged, and as they came out of the underbrush he remounted easily. “I believe he is only attempting to restore the glory that was the Mayan civilization. He is a great leader, a great general.”

  “He’s a deserter from Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.” As soon as he’d spoken the words, Ben realized he’d made his second mistake of the day.

  Though the Mexican seemed friendly enough, there was no way of knowing just where his loyalties stood.

  But all further conversation on that subject was cut short as the trail widened suddenly before them. Here, blocking the path as surely as some Spanish army of old, was a great vine-covered pyramid which might have been submerged in this jungle for a thousand years. A flight of crumbling stone steps led up the very center of it, and Ben remembered stories he’d read somewhere of high priests and human sacrifices to a god unknown.

  “Amazing,” he breathed. “Really amazing!”

  “There are many such ruins in Yucatan,” Yallahs told him. “They are theonly remains of what once was a highly advanced civilization. I wonder sometimes as we enter this twentieth century what ruins our civilization will leave.”

  They rode on, for some hours, until finally a hint of salt air twitched at Ben’s nostrils. “We’re near the water.”

  “Correct. And near the end of our long ride. Soon you will meet Wade Chancer for yourself.”

  The jungle thinned out to nothing as they entered upon a level plateau that stretched perhaps a mile to the sea. On the very edge of a rocky cliff stood a number of ancient and modern structures—another Mayan pyramid and an equally old flat-roofed building of stone. Among these ruins a few shacks and houses had been built, and as they traveled nearer Ben saw the Indians coming out to meet them. Many of them carried modern rifles. With Chancer as their general, they would already know how to use them.

  Ben followed Yallahs past the watching Indians and into the ancient stone building next to the pyramid. Below, far below, the pounding of the surf on rocks reached up with a fine salt spray to envelop them, and he imagined that the wind must always be strong here.

 
The interior of the building was amazingly modern, with evidence that the crumbling stones had been reinforced with handsome timbers of polished wood, probably brought out of the nearby jungle. They passed through two outer rooms and then Ben was left to wait a few moments while Yallahs went off in search of Wade Chancer. It was not a long wait, though, and the Mexican soon reappeared—followed by the man Ben Snow had traveled some nine hundred miles to find . . .

  Wade Chancer was a tall young man, just barely out of his twenties, who looked more like a lawyer than a general or a gunfighter. Even the tiny beard on his chin and the three glistening medals on his chest did nothing to dispel the illusion that here was only a masquerade character, a play actor in the costume of the moment. But there was the Army pistol swinging from his hip, and the dangerous look in his yellowish eyes, and when you noticed those things you tended to revise your conclusion of only a moment before. At least Ben did, standing there before this man almost ten years younger than himself.

  Wade Chancer could be dangerous, simply because he looked so harmless at first glance.

  “You’ve traveled a long way to see me,” he said, holding out a hand in greeting. “What can I do for you?”

  Ben gave him a smile meant to be friendly. “Oh, I was riding down this way and I heard the stories about you. I remembered I knew a friend of yours back in Texas and thought I’d stop to give you his regards.”

  The yellowish eyes hardened. “I have no friends in Texas. Or anywhere else for that matter.”

  “This man’s name was Ventnor.”

  Wade Chancer smiled, and there was a touch of the cruel about his lips. “Mr. Snow, there are three rifles pointed at your back. If Ventnor sent you to kill me, I assure you you’ll never get your gun out of its holster.”

  Ben pushed his hat back a little on his damp forehead. “I’m no hired killer, Chancer. I came only to see if the stories about you are true.”

  “They’re true.”

  Yallahs appeared from somewhere with three heavy glass mugs. “I believe we could all use a cool drink, gentlemen. Cool drinks for hot heads.”

  Wade Chancer relaxed and poured the drinks. He settled into a carved wooden chair and motioned Ben to join him. “Excuse me. I wasn’t being the proper host. Have a seat.”

  “Just what are you trying to do down here, Chancer?” Ben asked him.

  The bearded young man waved a hand. “Organize a revolution, I suppose. Yucatan, Mexico, maybe all of Central America in a few years. It can be done.”

  “What is this power you have over the Indians?”

  He smiled again. “Only the power of power, and of right. I want to lift them to their place of former glory in this world.”

  Ben leaned back in his chair, knowing that what he was to say next might bring him three bullets in the back if the rifles were still in position. “Ventnor said you deserted in Cuba.”

  “Ventnor is a fool. Why should I fight for the private glory of a man like Roosevelt when I can lead my own army, win my own wars?”

  Ben sipped his drink and found it a pleasing if unfamiliar mixture. Rum and some sort of fruit juice, he guessed. “Would you kill Mexicans to achieve your goal?”

  Chancer grinned. “I would kill Americans to achieve my goal. Wouldn’t you?”

  Another man entered, a middle-aged balding man with glasses. He was dressed in the European style, the manner now popular in the eastern cities of America, and to Ben he was as out of place here as he would have been on the Texas range. “You have a guest,” the man said, a bit startled. “Excuse me.”

  “Quite all right, Professor Irreel. This is Ben Snow, down all the way from Texas to visit us.” Then, to Ben, “Professor Irreel is a famous scientist back in Paris. He has worked with the Curies and many others. As you see, people come from all over to visit the domain of Wade Chancer.”

  Ben shook hands with the Frenchman. “Pleased to meet you, Professor. Are there any more surprises awaiting me here?”

  Chancer laughed. “Only Marge Fisher. She is an American like yourself, a nurse in my employ.”

  Ben caught the “like yourself.” Wade Chancer apparently no longer considered America his own home. He was a true man without a country, and perhaps that was why he felt the need to make his own nation. “Are you employed here too, Professor?” he asked.

  “Oh dear, no,” the Frenchman said, seeming to find the very thought humorous. “You might call this a working vacation. I am here for some months looking into native customs. As you know, the French have always had a deep interest in Mexico.”

  Ben smiled. “I thought they lost that interest about thirty years ago, with the help of the United States.”

  Professor Irreel flushed a bit. “We were not speaking of my country’s occasional lapses into imperialism.”

  Wade Chancer was watching the byplay with passive interest, but now suddenly he doubled over and started to cough. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief, and when he removed it Ben caught a glimpse of the red of blood. He recovered his composure almost at once, though, and stood up. “Excuse me. I haven’t been feeling well lately.”

  Then he was gone, with Yallahs hurrying after him, leaving Ben alone with Professor Irreel.

  “An unusual man,” Ben said, lighting up a cigarette from a box on the table.

  “Unusual,” Irreel agreed, “and dangerous.”

  “Just how dangerous is he?”

  The Frenchman glanced around, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He has quite an organization among the Indians. He talks sometimes of an army to march on Mexico City, and I really believe he means it.”

  “The Indians would follow him on something like this? After all, he is an American.”

  Irreel shrugged. “But important Mexicans like Yallahs support him. They dream of a return to the glories of the Mayan civilization.”

  “It takes more than that to control Indians.”

  “He has a power. There is no doubt about that.”

  “The thing seems so unreal.”

  The Frenchman smiled. “Life is unreal. Even I am unreal—my family name even means unreal. But these things happen. Certainly the recent advances in science are even more unreal than a man like Chancer. But be careful. I have seen his natives kill strangers here rather than let them leave. None of us are ever quite safe, and especially you with your knowledge of Chancer’s past.”

  “You heard?”

  Irreel nodded. “I was listening for a time before I made my appearance. As I said, be careful. Very careful.”

  “I can manage.”

  Professor Irreel nodded and left, as suddenly as he’d appeared. It was already dark outside, and presently Yallahs returned to show Ben to his quarters for the night. The place selected for him was in one of the wooden shacks near the ancient pyramid, an odd little room that appeared to be used for storage. He explored the area with some care after he’d been left alone, and was about to turn in when he heard the unmistakable sounds of someone approaching.

  Ben’s hand was resting on his gun when a candle flickered through the doorway and a girl appeared. She was an obvious American, with a freckled face and blonde hair, and she could only have been the nurse, Marge Fisher.

  “Hello there—I heard there was another American staying the night.”

  “Come in,” he said, removing his hand from the gun butt. “This place is full of surprises. My name’s Ben Snow.”

  “Marge Fisher. I’m a nurse here, doing what I can to care for these Indians. I suppose it’s a part of Mr. Chancer’s schemes for conquest to supply them with a semblance of medical care.” Her cultured voice had a bit of an edge to it that surprised Ben in a girl who couldn’t yet have been twenty-five. He wondered irrationally if perhaps she also served as Chancer’s mistress. “You’re the second person tonight who’s hinted at a dislike for Wade Chancer,” he said. “Is Yallahs the only friend he’s got?”

  “Chancer uses enemies the way other men use friends. Who else have you talked to?”

  “The Frenchman—Professor Irreel.”

  She dropped a little wax on the table between them and set the candle firmly in place. Its flickering yellow light did things to her face that were not unpleasant. “Don’t be taken in by Irreel,” she said. “He’s playing both sides for his own reasons. I’ll bet when he was denouncing Chancer he didn’t tell you he presented him with a medal, did he?”