The Vanquished by Brian Garfield Page A

missed something the first time.”
    â€œYou might say you were looking for answers,” Zimmerman said.
    That was all well enough, Charley noticed, but before you found the answers you had to know what kind of questions to ask. He watched the brown-amber swirl of Zimmerman’s drink as he gently turned the glass. The correspondent nodded over his notebook and pushed it along the bar toward Douglas. “See what you think of that.”
    Douglas perched the cigar between his teeth, glanced at Charley, and began to read aloud:
    â€œTo the Times . I am enabled through the courtesy of one of General Crabb’s staff, to forward you the following list of the officers of the great Arizona Colonization Company.” His eyes lifted. “Arizona, Mr. Zimmerman?”
    â€œAccording to your Captain McKinney,” Zimmerman said, and added drily, “He seems to feel that Sonora will be a part of Arizona before long.”
    Douglas gave Charley a dour giance and went on reading: “Their combined force is said to amount to fifteen hundred men on this coast, with large additions to arrive from Texas, under command of officers regularly appointed.” Douglas shook his head wryly. “There are ninety of us on this boat. Not fifteen hundred.”
    â€œThe rest will follow. I have it on the captain’s assurance.”
    â€œGood for him,” Douglas murmured. He skipped over the officer list and read another page from the notebook: “At present the organization appears only as a party of peaceful emigrants combining to resist Indian attack. I understand that its leaders intend to preserve this character and not to violate any United States statute until every arrangement is complete, when they will cross the line and with their allies in Sonora make their issue open and in strong force. Signed, ‘Z’.” Douglas handed the notebook back. “Good enough, I suppose. Why ask me? I’m not an officer.”
    â€œThat’s exactly why I did ask you. Tell me, what precisely is your position?”
    â€œScout and guide,” Douglas said. “I’ve been over the ground before.”
    â€œYes. With William Walker.” Smiling his round-cheeked smile, Zimmerman pocketed the notebook and pushed away. “I’ll see you gentlemen later.”
    â€œObliged for the coffee,” Charley said. He caught the correspondent’s nod and watched him leave. Norval Douglas said, “I wonder what he gets out of this kind of thing?” and left the bar too, leaving Charley alone with his coffee. It was amazing, he observed, how little anyone could know about anyone else. The coffee had cooled down and he sipped at its tepid strength. In a far part of the saloon he saw two large figures—Bill Randolph and Chuck Parker. A crowd of recent memories washed through him and in a moment he found himself thinking of Gail with a strange mixture of compassion and anger. The pale light from windows and chandeliers made a flat, almost vapid choleric un-healthiness of everyone’s flesh. Charley retreated in stiff silence from the room.
    There was no one below decks. He stood by his hammock and after a moment dragged out his carpetbag. The men in the saloon, he had noticed, were most of them armed. He tugged the belted revolver out of the bag, strapped the holster on, and held the gun in his hand, balancing its unfamiliar weight. The long octagonal barrel was crisp and smooth and straight; there was something clean and positive about it. He loaded it methodically. Dropping the hammer between two chambers, he hefted the gun and found it heavier than it had been. The weight of armed power amplified the two-and-a-half pounds of the gun. He slid his palm over the smooth hardwood grip and balanced the barrel over his crooked elbow, taking aim at a porthole, squinting with one eye over the tiny brass bead of the front sight. He imagined enemies balanced over that