Chapter Seven

Mike stretched his arms above his head as he awakened, idly wondering what Peter would be cooking for breakfast down in the kitchen. He rolled, his arms smacking into something warm and firm.

“Ow!” Micky protested, sitting up and rubbing his head. “Watch it!”

Mike blinked. “Okay, what are you doing in my bed?”

Micky frowned. “Your bed? What are you doing in my bed?”

Memory came rushing back, and Mike slumped back down, groaning. “It’s neither of our beds. Let’s go see if we can get Davy. C’mon, Peter, wake u—” He sat up, his eyes widening. His neck burned as he said Peter’s name. “Aw, hell, don’t tell me . . . ”

“Yep, he’s gone,” Micky said, as if it came as no surprise to him that Peter was missing. “He’s probably in the bathroom, or maybe he’s downstairs getting something for his headache.”

Mike rolled out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom, then leaned over the balcony overlooking the cantina. “Neither one,” he growled.

“You don’t think . . . ”

“No, I don’t think. I know.” He sighed. “Get dressed. We need to grab something to eat and get the car. Things just got complicated.”

“You’re telling me, Mike,” Micky said as they struggled to get into their borrowed clothing. “I don’t know which one to smack around first. Provided they’re alive.”

Mike released a gruff, amused chuckle. “Pot kettle black, Mick. You’re the last person to talk.”

Micky opened his mouth to protest, then flushed as he closed it and settled for a glare at Mike designed to make the ebony-haired Horse silent. Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite erase the smile, and the effect was completely ruined.

“I bet it’s times like this that you wish you could breathe fire, Micky,” Mike said, strapping the gunbelt onto his hips just beneath a canary yellow sash.

“Just you wait, Michael Nesmith,” Micky cockneyed his way through an intentionally bad rendering of the ‘Henry Higgins’ scene from ‘My Fair Lady’ as he strapped on his gunbelt, then adding the one Peter had left behind. Shifting to his own voice, he said, “Let’s do it to it.”

Mike chuckled, holding Micky’s head still as he carefully applied the long half handlebar mustache to Micky’s face. Hopefully it would be enough to keep El Diablo from recognizing them. He held still while Micky did the same for him.

“Jeez, Micky, c’mon! You’re not paintin’ the Mona Lisa here! Just put it on and let’s go!”

Micky giggled. “You’re right. The Mona Lisa is much prettier than you.” He winked. “Besides, we have to make it look like a real mustache or else they’ll be on to us.” He finished and stood back, grinning. “There we are—genuine appearing horse-hair!” And he bolted, laughing all the way down the stairs.

Mike followed him down and out into the square, studiously ignoring the suspicious looks of the townspeople peeking out at them.

The man who had been looking at the car walked up to them. “Aaah, buenos dias, señores! It’s a new day, a marvelous day—”

“Cut the crap,” Micky growled, in no mood for any ingratiation. “Is the car fixed?”

“Ay, no, señor, but I found out the problem.”

Micky squinted. “I told you what the problem is! Now is it fixed or not?”

The man affected an expression of deep sadness. “Ay, no. These things, they take time. Broken motor and all.”

“Broken motor!?” Micky screeched. “That’s a load of sh—”

“Micky,” Mike said, calming the younger man down. He looked at the man. “Now, we need our car and we need it now. Micky, you work with our friend here and get the Monkeemobile running.”

Micky nodded and the man shook his head. “No, señor, I don’ need help . . . it’s just this takes money, this does.”

Micky pulled loose from Mike and seized the man by his shirt, lifting him almost off his feet. “You’ll get your money when you do what I told you to do in the first place! Vamanos!”

Either the man was terminally stupid or his English was just simply not that good. “señor, por favor . . . it is not as simple as that . . . new parts must be purchased . . . ”

Micky swallowed, switching to Spanish to make himself perfectly clear. “You have the parts, yes?”

He blinked, thrown. “I have the gasket, the plugs, oil and fluids . . . ”

“Then you are going to come with me and replace every part while I’m watching you, and if you don’t move andele, I will knock you unconscious and do it myself.”

The man blinked. “Si, señor,” he said, and began to move awkwardly. He managed to get it done, piece by piece, but it was slow and awkward progress. Micky stood behind him, his hands spasmodically clenching the handle of his gun. Occasionally he would bark out a command and the man would hurry up for a few minutes before slowing down again.

Mike stood off to the side, lost in his thoughts. He had had no doubt that their friendly little mechanic was moving so slow for a reason. He was working for El Diablo either from coercion or choice. Micky an’ me are walking into a trap. I know it. And Peter’s probably already there.

~~~~~

Peter moved silently around the perimeter of the camp, searching for an opening. He’d seen Davy, knew he was safe. He was trying to gauge the weaknesses and strengths of the bandits, struggling to find a way to get him and Davy both safely out of there.

On the second circuit, he moved toward the relative safety of a tree, keeping very close to the ground. But the second he neared the tree and touched the trunk, a large bevy of birds shot up from the canopy. Peter closed his eyes and bowed his head, one word slipping softly out.

“Shit.”