Predators
The ride into
At the outskirts of
"I will be back to see you very soon, Mark,"
Xavier Escobar called out as they rode away, and Mark waved at him from the
buckboard. Blue sat on his left, driving
the buckboard, and
"Well, this is it, Mark," Blue said, waving his
hands expansively. "The
big city of
Mark stared around in wonder at the assortment of buildings,
his eyes big and bright, and
"Gosh," he said at last.
"Have you been to a town such as
"No, ma'am," Mark replied. "At least, not since I was a baby. Pa and I, well, we rode through
"First we will take you to into the store and buy you
some new clothes,"
"Gee, thanks.
I'm much obliged, Mrs. Cannon, but I don't know how I'm gonna be able to pay you back."
"Don't even think of it,"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Are you uncomfortable addressing me by my first
name?"
"Well, Pa taught me to be respectful of older
folks—uh, not that you are old or anything, ma'am. It's just that people who are adults, and
especially ladies, well, Pa had rules about that. Is it all right if I call you Mrs.
Cannon?"
"It is perfectly all right and very acceptable,"
she said. "It is a bit formal,
however. I would like you to feel that
our home is your home, and that you are with family."
"Thank you, ma'am," Mark replied, and his eyes
glazed a bit as he stared northeast at the distant Santa Catalinas. "That's mighty nice of you, and I do
appreciate it, but what I had of a family…well, it died out there in those
mountains."
Mark blinked suddenly, and looked up to meet
"Of course, nothing against your
family or anything, Mrs. Cannon.
You folks are all swell people.
It just might take me a spell to get comfortable, that's all."
"Take all the time you need,"
Blue stepped down from the buckboard and tied off the
team, then moved to help
"Take Mark inside and buy him at least two sets of
clothes," she said. "I will go
down to visit with the sheriff and inform him of what has happened. Hopefully, he will be able to telegraph the
territorial marshal. We will also
telegraph
Blue nodded and pushed his blonde thatch of hair back
under his hat as his blue eyes looked out across the desert south of town.
"Okay, but we'd better not get started too
late," he said. "We won't have
your pa and his riders with us on the way back, and with all that's been going
on around here lately, well, we'd best get back before it gets dark."
"We will.
Blue, sometimes you sound just like your father. Here, use some of this money to entertain
Mark. Buy him some candy," she
said, whispering the last part. "Some for yourself, too."
Blue scowled a moment.
He was not sure what to say. He
knew that the money was a gift, or perhaps a payment for watching Mark, but it
was unnecessary, for he liked the McCain boy.
On one hand, the offer was a kindness, but taken another way it might
mean that
"Okay."
"I shall return shortly. Mark, if you will go with Blue, he will help
you pick out your new clothes."
"Yes, ma'am," Mark said with a grin.
Blue watched her go in silence. He had experienced some difficulty fitting
No, his mother was dead, taken by the hard land in which
they now lived. She was the only mother
Blue would ever know.
He could certainly see why his father was attracted to
her. With her long, straight black hair,
glittering black eyes, small waist and fine-boned complexion,
A certain warmth and friendliness had grown between them
over the last few months. Like that
between brother and sister, it was a feeling of family, of unison, but it had
not always been that way.
At first, Blue had resented
Blue had also been convinced at the time that
Perhaps that had indeed been Don Sebastian's intent, for
the Lion of Sonora was a crafty old rascal, but if that were so, his plans had
long since backfired on him, for
At the time, Blue's own pain and loss had kept him from
seeing things clearly. Now, with the
passage of time, he could see what the truth was. His anger over losing his own mother had
blinded him to
Blue's reflections made him turn to look at Mark
McCain. They had a lot in common, he
thought sadly. They were both sons who
had lost their mothers far too early in life.
They shared that unique and eternal grief. The only difference between them, other than
age, was that Blue still had a father.
Blue could still understand how the boy must feel. His own father had been gone off to war when
Blue had been about the same age. He had
not known at the time if he would ever see his father or his uncle again, and
he had felt half-orphaned. Fortunately,
both had returned from the war. Mark,
however, truly was an orphan. It created
a warm and tender sympathy in Blue for the boy.
"Let's go in the store," he told Mark, stepping
up on the boardwalk.
"We have a general store in
"Do you like rock candy?" Blue asked.
"Boy, do I!"
"Good, because this store has some of the best rock candy this side of the
"Are you kidding?
I never turn down rock candy."
Blue grinned and placed his hand on Mark's shoulder as he
led him into the store.
"You're a boy after my own heart," he said with
a grin.
II
SALOON,
Sod Chambers stepped to the bar and had the barkeep pour
him another shot of rye. He quickly
emptied the shot glass, grimacing as he felt the whiskey burn deep into his
belly. He quickly ordered a refill and
leaned against the bar, holding the shot glass in one hand. His other hand hung loosely at his side, holding
his fancy new
His life had been a hard one, he had to admit that, but he
was doing pretty well now. He was a
leader of men, a man with a gang of tough, dependable men he could count on in
a tough scrape. They stayed dependable
not only because Chambers was good with a gun, but also because he always made
them a profit. True, he made his living
selling guns to renegade Indians, but he had never had any particular qualms
about being on the owlhoot trail.
His family had been dirt-poor when he was born, a small
clan of sharecroppers in
Sod's father had been a thin, hard-working man. A tough, resolute hardshell
Baptist, he was a man who had constantly quoted from the Bible and weaved
religious interpretations into everything in life. The old man had had some mighty strange
notions about life, too.
"We's
poor 'cause we's sinners," his pa had often told
him as they worked to plow a tobacco field, or to
pick fuzzy cotton bolls. "A man's
born to this life as a sinner, and he dies a sinner, and that's why we have our
lot in life, son. We's
sinners an' don't deserve no better. Ain't no cause in trying to better yourself up none like
them high falutin' folks. You cain't be better'n what you are.
We is what we is because we deserve it."
His pa had also had some tough rules for Sod and his
brothers to follow. He would not
tolerate swearing or drinking, and attendance in church every Sunday had been
mandatory, unless one had been on one's deathbed. His father had been more than happy to take a
razor strop to Sod and his brothers any time they transgressed one of the many
rules that his old man considered law, and therefore sacred.
By age seventeen, Sod Chambers had finally had more than
enough of the old coot. He'd had enough
picking cotton for rich folks, too. He
had had enough of working beside black slaves, and more than enough of hard,
sweaty work. But most of all, he'd had
more than enough of his surly Bible-quoting pap.
So had informed his father that he
intended to join the army when the war came to
Burned, his father had howled and swung, but Sod had
fought him, and he had won, beating the living daylights out of the old man
right there in the kitchen. It was true
that he had had to use an ax handle to do it, for the
old man was a tough scrapper, but it had been the only way Sod could ensure
that he would win.
He had left his father a bloody mess on the kitchen floor,
in front of his crying mother and the dirty wailing waifs that were his
brothers and sisters. Sod Chambers had
simply walked away and never looked back.
Soldiering had not been difficult work for him, certainly
nothing as difficult as doing a slaves' work in the fields had been. He had taken to soldiering well, happy with
having relatively clean clothes and three meals a day, and even a little
leisure time on occasion.
He had been there when it all started, at the first
The Union army had come south, angry over the incident at
General Beauregard had retained other ideas, of
course. When the Yankees attacked, they
had driven Beauregard's rebel soldiers all the way back to Henry House Hill,
but Madman Thomas Jackson had stood his ground at that point, stopping the
Yankees cold. Beauregard had quickly
perceived that Union General McDowell's attempt to encircle him had failed, and
when McDowell had over-extended his right flank, Beauregard had sent J.E.B.
Stuart's cavalry in to smash it. The
counterattack had worked wonderfully, surprising the Yankee army, and the
festive scene on the Union side of the lines had quickly disintegrated into a
rout. Soldiers, civilians, horses, and
other animals had tried to flee in panic back up the road to the north, and the
Confederate army had pursued them, turning Centerville Road into a jumbled
morass of people, wagons, and animals.
The pursuit had been half-hearted, for Beauregard had felt
no urge to kill the civilians fleeing with the Yankee army. Even so, the first battle of
He had come to realize that men would naturally follow a
leader who dared do bold things that other men only dreamed about. More importantly, he had realized that he
preferred to live life in the saddle with the cavalry than to live in the mud
with the infantry.
He had managed, using a little blackmail involving a
Confederate officer and a slave girl, to obtain an assignment to a cavalry
outfit. Sod had always liked horses,
anyway, and he had taken to cavalry life much better than he had to the
infantry, for it had involved less walking.
His soldiering career had gone well, too, right up until
the fifth day of May, 1864. Attacking
along the
Desperately galloping his horse through the woods in an
attempt to escape the approaching flames, half blinded by smoke, Sod had not
seen the low-hanging branch that knocked him from the saddle. He had been riding wildly one moment, and the
next thing he had known was waking up with a headache. He had also seen a Yankee soldier pointing a
long bayonet at his belly and telling him he was a prisoner of war.
They had placed him in irons after that
and taken him north on a train. After two days in a crowded, festering
cattle car, he had arrived at the Rock Island Federal Prison. The prison camp had been overcrowded, and the
conditions had been horrible, even worse than those he had endured as a
sharecropper's son. The place had been
full of wounded and dying Confederate troops, all poorly fed and clothed. Lice had rats been rampant, and many had died
of gangrene, malnutrition and dysentery.
Sod had felt as if he would himself die from the sheer horror and filth,
until his Yankee captors had approached one day and offered a way out.
Due to the desperate need for experienced troops, the
Comanches, Kiowas,
and
The Yankees had offered a deal to the prisoners. They would not have to fight their brothers
in gray, but as a condition of release from prison,
they had to agree to serve the Union army in its fight against the western
Indians. Many of the prisoners had been
more than happy to sign that deal merely to escape the soul-killing
prison. Sod Chambers had been one of
those.
He had not really minded changing uniforms. He had decided he could kill Indians as
easily as he could kill Yankees.
Chambers had never felt any particular sympathy for the Confederate
cause, anyway, only a need to belong in a band of men who took swift
action. So it was that he had found
himself, in the spring of 1865, a "galvanized" Yankee, riding out to
He had found the plains tribes a different sort of enemy
than the Yankees. The Indians did not
close for battle unless they were sure they could win. That had not been the
way of fighting in the Civil War at all.
Unlike white men, the Lakota could have cared less about holding or
conquering terrain, nor for the glory of a cause. The Indians had not fought for glory. Instead, they had fought for victory and
survival. They had only been interested
in winning, and on those occasions when they could not win, they had simply
ridden away. When they could, the Sioux
had attacked with everything they had, mercilessly. It had given Chambers a new appreciation of
warfare in general, and of Indians in particular.
You couldn't whip an enemy you couldn't catch.
He had finished his tour of duty on the ill-fated
It had been far better to remain in the West, where a man
was free to ride and go his own way.
Chambers was a cautious man who learned from his mistakes, and he had
quickly learned that the ends usually justified the means.
He had been dead broke and drifting, drinking in a muddy
saloon in
He had traded with the Kiowa first, after having bought a
load of goods on credit, but the Kiowa had possessed little worth trading for,
and had wanted the guns for virtually nothing.
Trading guns to Indians could get a man hung, but Chambers had taken the
risk, managing to supply them with some old discarded carbines. The Kiowa had managed to trade enough robes
for those guns that when he cashed them in for money he had somehow come out
ahead. Soon after, he had done the same
thing with the
Somehow, the Texas Rangers had gotten wind of his scheme,
however. He and his gang had had to run
for their lives from a supposed trading fair near Palo Duro
canyon, when it had turned out to be a trap.
Three of his men had been shot down as they ran, two others subsequently
caught and hanged, and Chambers had decided that perhaps
He had then moved the gang father west, into
It had only been simple robbery at first, but his men had
quickly developed a taste for dusky Mexican women, and the raids soon became
more for rape and food than for robbery.
They had been fearful that such people would point the Federales their way, so they butchered several small
villages to eliminate any witnesses.
Some of the men had started scalping the women when they were through
with them, wearing their scalps tied in the fringe of their buckskin jackets,
or hung loosely from the barrels of their rifles. In fact, it had seemed like a good idea.
Soon they were leaving obvious signs that the raids had
been the result of a Mescalero attack. It had effectively thrown off pursuit, and it
had more than paid the Mescalero back for their
treachery. Chambers' men had been very
careful to make each raid look like an Apache depredation.
Sod had never cared much for raping village girls, but he
was not above taking a target of opportunity if it arose. He had no compunction about killing in cold
blood, either.
It had been about that time when the renegade, Juh, had led the Janeros Apache
on a massive raid into
He had needed guns to trade, however. As a result, he had himself originated the
idea of attacking an Army caravan while dressed as Apaches. His men had wiped out a wagon train of
soldiers only a few weeks after hatching the idea, hitting a small detail
moving a wagon load of carbines and ammunition from
The plan had worked well, he admitted, slugging down
another shot of rye. The Chiricahua would butcher Mexicans and bring their gold back
to trade for the new rifles. As long as
they were on a tear along the border, Sod Chambers knew he would have a steady
source of customers. It was, therefore,
in his best interests to keep the unrest going on both sides of the border.
He planned to instigate a few more raids on the Mexican
side using his own men—dressed as Apaches, of course—and that would keep the
Mexicans and the Americans constantly at odds.
In turn, both sides would mount unrelenting pressure on the real Apache,
who would be even more eager to buy more guns.
It was almost perfect, in a way. His gang got richer all the while, and they
had plenty of money for whiskey and whores.
Best of all, the Apaches took the blame for the whole thing!
True, the rifles would get harder and harder to supply,
but it did not take a genius to sneak a man into a fort and learn about the
movement of weapons and ammunition. All
one had to do was listen in the bars and cantinas around the post. Chambers' own knowledge of cavalrymen and his
easy-going manners had served him well in that regard in the past. There was no reason they would not serve him
well in the future.
The only trouble was that the Apache were not fools. They were rapidly growing tired of the old
Sharps carbines he was supplying, wanting instead the shorter-ranged but rapid
fire lever-action repeaters that many ranchers were carrying.
Like the very
Sod hefted the
He thought of the man who had owned the rifle, the man he
had shot. He had been a tall man, with
sandy red hair, blue eyes and a chin as square as the bottom of a lantern. Shooting him with his own rifle had been a
great touch.
That McCain fellow had possessed a rattlesnake's eyes, eyes
that could turn from a friendly aqua to volcanic blue ice in an instant. But he was dead now, and it was just as
well. What kind of fool traveled alone in the desert taking a small boy through
Apache country?
What kind of fool carried only a single rifle for
protection?
It did not matter, of course. The man was long gone to his Maker by now,
food for ants, buzzards, and coyotes.
The most satisfying touch had been to give that squawking brat of his to
the Apache, so they could roast the kid over a slow fire. Likely, the Apaches had had quite a time,
too, for they were masters of torture, and could keep a body alive for days in
horrible pain before death finally came.
Yeah, as much as that kid had liked to scream, he had likely entertained
those Apaches for quite a few nights before they hung his scalp on their
belts. That rotten little waif wouldn't
be squawking anymore.
A hand slapped Chambers on the shoulder, and he looked up
to see the bearded face of Boyle Collins, his right-hand man, as he pulled up
beside Chambers at the bar.
"You seem pretty deep in thought on something,
Sod," Boyle said. "What you thinkin' about?"
"Oh, nothin' much,"
Chambers replied, staring at the whiskey in his shot glass. "Just enjoying a little red-eye, that's
all."
"Ha! I see
you're still hanging on to that fancy rifle.
You gonna sell that thing, or keep it?"
"Think I'll keep it.
Why?"
"Well, a rifle like that, it stands out," Boyle
said, pouring whiskey into his own glass.
"Might be kind of well-known. Somebody might recognize it. I wouldn't want people to start asking
questions and pokin' their noses into our
business. I'd sell it, if I were
you. Or hide it"
"Well, you ain't me,"
Chambers said. "I like the way it
shoots. I wonder how well that sodbuster
we killed could shoot this thing. What
do you think a two-bit sodbuster like him needed a fancy repeater like this
for? Certainly didn't need it to punch
cattle or plow dirt.
I wonder why he made the lever ring so big like that."
"He had big hands," Boyle said, tossing down his
rye. "He was a big fella. Maybe he just
couldn't get his big ol' hams inside a skinny little
lever."
"Maybe," Chambers admitted. "You through playing
poker?"
"Dealt myself out," Boyle said, refilling his
glass. "I couldn't seem to get any
winning hands. Besides, there's other pleasures in town, if you get my drift."
Chambers laughed and laid the rifle upon the bar,
refilling his own glass as he rested on his forearms.
"I do, indeed, Boyle."
"Man's just gotta take him
a woman once in a while," Boyle explained, his eyes glittering. "Especially men like us, what drift here
and there.
Besides, they even got white women in this here town. I'd much rather save my money for them women
than those horse thieves in that poker game over there."
"Oh? You done
gone and got tired of them senoritas across the border, Boyle?"
Boyle grinned as he drank his rye, then
paused to spit in the spittoon beside the bar.
"No, I ain't," he
laughed. "Them
Mexican gals is fine stuff, Sod. But they's a spicy sort. Like chili. Sometimes a man likes chili,
and sometimes he just wants some plain old vanilla."
Boyle's gaze suddenly drifted out past Chambers, and he
stared through the batwing doors at the street "On the other hand," he said
slowly. "Jumpin'
Jehosephat, Sod, get a load of that!"
A Mexican woman walked down the boardwalk across the
street, dressed in petticoats and a shawl, carrying a bright umbrella. Her features were finely chiseled,
and her smooth skin was light for a Mexican.
Her coal-black hair hung straight and free, almost reaching her waist,
pulled back and held in place with a simple white band. Her clothes were expensive, and she moved with
a visual grace and dignity.
"Well, I'm not much for bean-eaters," Sod said admiringly,
"but I got to admit that there's one fine-looking filly, Boyle."
"You're telling me," Boyle replied, licking his
lips. "I need to keep my eye on
that one. See which place she works
in. Might need to
holster my gun or something, if you know what I mean."
Chambers laughed, causing Boyle to scowl.
"I don’t think she's that type, Boyle," Chambers said, shaking his head. "Too classy. She ain't no working girl, not in this cow town. Look at them clothes, and the way she carries
herself. No, that there is likely some
rich patron's woman, maybe his daughter; some Mex
rancher, with a whole lot of cattle and money.
Probably claims Spanish descent, too.
She won't have nothing to do with the likes of
you, ol' pard. You're likely just a bit too gringo for the
likes of her."
They watched as the woman continued down the street,
smiling at passersby as she made he
way to the general store, where she entered.
Chambers slapped Boyle on the back in consolation.
"No, you better stick with them crib girls, Boyle. She's out of your class."
"The hell she is," Boyle grumbled.
"I'm telling you, Boyle, there's
women and then there's ladies. You might get away with messing with some
woman on this side of the border, especially if they ain't
white, but it ain't likely, less'n
they're whores. But, you go hedging a
fancy lady in these parts and you're gonna have a lot
more attention than your poor ol' hide wants. And it won't be from the lady, neither."
Boyle Collins was staring sullenly, sipping from his glass
and thinking about the woman when his eyes suddenly widened and he slammed the
glass down on the bar. Wiping his mouth,
he punched Chambers lightly in the arm and pointed out the door.
Across the street, the Mexican woman had emerged from the
general store with two people, a tall blonde lad of about twenty, and a young
boy with dark hair.
"Hey, Sod, ain't that the
kid we give to them Apaches?" Sod asked.
Chambers blinked as if he had not heard Boyle correctly, then followed his pointing hand to stare at the people
across the street. Chambers' eyes
widened in surprise, and then narrowed sharply as he felt a shiver run up his
spine. Suddenly, he felt mean.
Real mean.
"I'll be damned and horse-whipped to Sunday,"
Chamber said softly. "It's him all
right."
"How'd he get to be here?" Boyle asked
incredulously. "We left that kid
for the 'Patches to kill."
"It would appear," Chambers said softly, his
eyes narrowing even more, "that them redskins ain't
quite the friends we come to expect 'em to be. He's with that pretty Mex
gal. Where was she when you first saw
her?"
"Down past the livery, over by the sheriff's
office," Boyle said.
"Damn."
Chambers tossed off the last of his drink and set the
glass down beside the rifle on the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand as he thought. He had to have time
to think this through; time to understand the implications of that sodbuster's
kid still being not only alive, but here in Tucson.
"This ain't good,
Boyle. This ain't
good at all."
"Why?"
"That kid can identify us, Boyle. He saw us tradin'
guns to them Chiricahua. Way things are right now, that's more than
enough to get our necks stretched. And
if that ain't enough, that brat saw me gun down his
daddy personally. If he points us out to
the law, well, it'll be a lot worse for us here than it was back in
Boyle growled and reached for his gun.
"Not if I shoot him first."
Chambers placed a restraining hand on Boyle's arm and
shook his head. "Use your
head," he told the bearded man. "You
go and gun that kid down and they'll hang you for sure. People in these parts ain't
gonna let you get away with something like that,
especially not when it’s a kid."
"Yeah, well that older one's wearing a gun,"
Boyle pointed out. "Maybe I can
draw on him and just kind of let the little kid get caught in the
crossfire."
Chambers shook his head, and turned his back to the doors
so that anyone passing by would not get a good look at his face. He motioned for Boyle to step closer.
"No, that's not the way," he said. "A gunfight in town is too chancy. That blonde guy might be faster'n
you, or even get off a lucky shot."
"I've killed better men than that greenhorn,"
Boyle growled angrily.
"Yeah, but you've also seen some men get shot ten or
twelve times before they finally went down, and even though they were already
dead, some of 'em still managed to get off a lucky
shot that dropped their killer. You've
also seen a lot of bystanders hit who weren't even in the gunfight. No, a gunfight like that will draw way too
much attention in a town like this, and attention is definitely something we
don't need right now. I don't want any
lawmen snooping' around anywhere near us.
There ain't no
advantage in bucking a stacked deck, Boyle.
Not unless you have to."
"That kid will get us hung!"
"So will a gunfight in the
streets of town," Chambers told him, using a firmer voice. "There are ways we can still deal with
that kid that don't involve announcing to the whole world who we are and what
we've done. There's got to be a way of
getting to that kid without everybody else getting to us."
"So, what are you planning, Sod? An ambush?"
Chambers pushed his hat back on his head and carefully
pulled the cork from the bottle and refilled the glass before replying. There had to be a better way to shut the kid
up without making it obvious who killed him. There just had to be.
Chambers had to admit it was likely the woman had already
reported the boy's tale to the local law.
That would certainly explain why she had gone to the sheriff's
office. He had already checked around,
and he knew the territorial marshal was out of town; a man on the owlhoot trail made it his business to find out things like
that. The sheriff had a responsibility
for the township and county, but he wasn't likely to go searching the local
mountains without a cause. Not even on a
pretty Mexican lady's word.
Perhaps he could arrange to bushwhack them on the way
home. Judging from the buckboard, they
had come from some distance out of town.
It would not take much effort to ask around and find out where the lady
lived. People would know where a pretty
thing like that was from. If he could
ask the questions easy enough, he could find that out without much effort, and
no one would be the wiser. Of course, it
would be a lot easier to just light a shuck for
"We gotta get that kid
somehow, Boyle," he said.
"Without him, there ain't no witnesses.
Everything is what they call circumstantial
evidence. I think I got an idea of
how we can do that, but we're gonna have to do some
asking around, and we have to be real careful about how we do it, so no one
gets suspicious.
"First, we need to find out where that Mexican lady
lives and how to get there. Then, we got
to know what we're up against at her house.
We need to figure out the best place to hit 'em. On the road, or at their
house. Once we find out, we're gonna lay low, outta
sight-like. Get the boys together and
tell 'em what's going on, then send a few of them out
to ask about that senorita. I want to
know everything we can about her. Her name, her family, even her friends. How many men work at her ranch, that sort of thing. Then, we she leaves town, we'll trail her and pick
our spot."
Boyle grinned and refilled his own shot glass. "A bushwhack?"
"Maybe," Chambers replied. "Or maybe something better. Depends on what we find out. But one thing's for sure; we gotta get rid of that kid somehow or we're done in these
parts. And I got no intention of being
done just yet. There's
still a lot of Apaches out there, and a lot more army guns to steal, and a lot
of Mexican gold to take."
"And a lot more Mexican towns to raid," Boyle
added with a guffaw. "Okay,
Sod. We'll do like you say. Should be no problem. Only thing is, when the time comes, whether
she's alive or dead, I want me a turn at that Mexican gal. Most of the others will, too."
Chambers smiled easily and slapped Boyle on the back.
"I think we can arrange that," he said happily,
all charm and comfort now. "I might
just have to give that one a go my own self.
She's pretty."
Boyle laughed, and Sod picked up his glass and rifle and
moved back into the gloom of the saloon, watching the trio across the street
from relative darkness, where those on the street would be unable to make him
out.
Outside, the lady was helped into the buckboard by the
blonde lad, who then hoisted the sodbuster's kid up and onto the riding
seat. The blonde man stepped up onto the
buckboard a moment later, and started the wagon, driving it down the street to
stop in front of a restaurant, where he helped them down again and tied the
horses.
Inside
the saloon, ten pairs of eyes watched them ascend the steps into the
restaurant. There was not a pleasant
stare in any of them.
III
SOUTH OF THE
It was hot in the afternoon sun as John Cannon led his men
south toward the High Chaparral. The
work on the north range was completed, and they at last had a break in the
field until the fall roundup. The men
were looking forward to the well-earned barbecue that John had promised them
the following day, as well as having time off the following day. For the present, however, it would be more
than enough for most of them just to be back on the ranch and to sleep in a
real bed instead of on the hard ground.
Sam and Joe Butler rode at John's side, ahead of the rest
of the men as they proceeded south, crossing the
desert north of
"I suppose you boys will be happy to get home
tonight," John said in the way of conversation, trying to ignore the
trickle of sweat running down the small of his back and threatening to make him
itch.
"Yes, sir," Joe replied with a smile.
"Joe's a mite happier than the rest, Mr.
Cannon," Sam explained dryly. "Seems he got a crick in the neck from using that saddle of
his as a pillow."
"I just want a good meal and a bath," Joe
countered, and his big brother laughed.
"The rest of us would sure appreciate that," Sam
said, shaking his head. "You taking
a bath, I mean."
John tried not to grin, but he was not entirely
successful.
"Well, you men can do just about whatever you want
tonight," he said. "Eat,
sleep, ride into town, whatever. You've all certainly earned it."
The afternoon was getting late, and it was hot, despite
the darkness that would fall in a few hours.
John looked at the setting sun and estimated they would arrive at the High
Chaparral just about sundown. He had
never liked going off and leaving the ranch unguarded, especially when
John reached up to wipe sweat from his eyes with his
bandanna, and he saw Joe pull aside and point.
Sam nodded in response, pulling his
"What is it?" he asked.
"Dust ahead," Sam replied. "Lots of it. Looks like a whole herd of something headed
south. One plume's closer, though. Something coming toward
us."
"I see it," John said, squinting at the
horizon. "On the road out of
"Could be," Sam admitted, "but that's an
awful lot of dust for one stagecoach.
More like a troop of cavalry. I
prefer to remain careful until we know.
Especially with the Apache situation the way it is."
"Wise choice," John admitted.
They moved ahead slowly, eyes scanning the distance for
any sign of danger. At last, they
spotted a lone rider coming toward them through the desert. John pulled his men to a halt in a loose
semicircle and waited. The rider came on
at a trot, stopping just outside of rifle range. It was a white man. He waved in a friendly manner, but he looked
agitated, looking back over his shoulder as if expecting pursuit.
"You Big John Cannon?" the man called. "Owner of the High
Chaparral?"
"I am," John yelled back. "Who wants to know?"
"Sorry," the man replied. "Can't hear too well. Can I come in?"
"Yes, come ahead."
The rider quickly galloped up to stop in front of
John. The rider had two rifles on his
horse, a repeater and a Sharps buffalo gun.
He tipped his hat toward John and smiled.
"Howdy, Mr. Cannon, I'm Chancy Jones," the man
said in a casual and friendly manner.
"It's a pleasure, sir."
"What can I do for you, Chancy?"
"I come to bring you news, Mr. Cannon," Jones
told him. "I was sent out from
"Who sent you?" John asked tersely. "What's going on?"
"Apaches," Jones replied breathlessly, as if he
had ridden very hard recently. "Lots of 'em. They're raidin' all
over the place. Hit two ranches
already. Even struck
at the south side of
"The Apaches struck
"Yes, sir. Oh, just a few gunshots. A man was wounded slightly, nothing
serious. But they sent a platoon of them
Fifth Cavalry boys out to chase 'em off. They did, too, northwest, right up into a
canyon in the
"What was all of that dust south of here?" John
asked.
"Oh, that?" Jones said, grinning
sheepishly. "Well, the people in the town was worried about your ranch, what with
you being gone an' all. They sent a
party of men over to guard it from the Apache, just in case they attack the
ranch afore you get back. They just
wanted to make sure you still had a place to come home to, Mr. Cannon.
"The commandant over in
"They sent you all by yourself?" John asked.
"Weren't no one else,"
Jones replied. "Rest was in the defense parties for the town or sent out to guard the
ranches. Me being a drifter in town and
all, I guess they thought I was the least valuable, the most likely one they
could risk to send out this way."
"And you volunteered to come?" Sam asked, his
eyes narrowing.
"No, not exactly," Jones said sheepishly. "I mean, I want to do my duty and all
that, but it weren't my idea. I had me a
run-in with some boys in poker game in town.
They lost. I was kind of figuring
I should light a shuck before they came to collect all the money they
lost."
"Yeah, that sounds like
"Where are these soldiers trapped at?" John
asked.
"Just east of the Tortolitas,"
Jones said. "Just go straight up
the Pantano Wash to Ritillo
Creek, then due north to the Tortolita range. Captain at
"Up the Pantano to Ritillo and then due north to the Tortalitas,"
John said. "We can certainly help
out. Will you be riding with us?"
"Me?" Jones said with a horrified
expression. "Oh,
no, sir! Not me. I've had enough run-ins with Injuns in this
life already. Had me a little do-see-do
with them critters up on the
"Well, good luck to you then," John said. "It'll be well after dark before we get
to that spot. I hope the army knows
that."
"They know it," Jones said. "Captain said he'd wait until
"Much obliged," John told him, turning his horse
to the northwest. "Okay, Sam, let's
get the men moving. The Army is in need
of our help. It'll be a hard ride, and
we may not get that warm bed tonight, but we had better go see what we can
do."
"All right, Mr. Cannon. Let's go, boys. You heard the man," Sam yelled, and the
riders turned to follow Sam and John as they began galloping back the way they
had come, heading for the Tortolitas. Joe Butler hung back a moment, watching
Chancy Jones. Jones looked at him and
saluted. Joe frowned slightly, then
turned his horse and followed the men of the High Chaparral as they rode
northwest to yet another Apache fight.
Sitting on his horse, Sod Chambers watched them ride off
with a smile on his lips. He had used
the name Chancy Jones many times before, but he had never expected it would be
this effective. In fact, it could not
have worked out better. He started to
laugh, then turned his horse and rode slowly back to
the south at a slow cant.
It was time to go and see this High Chaparral ranch he had
heard so much about. Time
to go and take a better look at that pretty Mexican gal, up close.
Time to go and kill a loudmouth kid for
the second time.
IV
HIGH CHAPARRAL
RANCH,
Only three men had been guarding the High Chaparral when
Blue had driven them through the gate after the trip back from
Now, as she fixed supper, it was becoming dark
outside. Blue was in the corral with the
horses. At this time of day, with her
husband and the others all away,
Her thoughts, as they tended to do, drifted again to the
land. The desert was a sere place, a
tough hard land with little mercy, yet it was also her home. In its silent harsh way, the Sonoran desert could also be quite beautiful at times. That was especially true when the sun was at
a low angle, as it was now, lighting the distant hills with brilliant oranges,
yellows and russets. The distant
lowlands and canyons disappeared into a deep purple gloom. Far above them, the first star of the evening
opened its single eye in the deep indigo of afterglow. Dust particles in the air far above the
desert lit the sky, even as the ground settled into the shadow of darkness.
The pastel shades and brilliant colors,
the sudden coolness in the air after a day of heat, made the desert an
especially wonderful place to be at sunset.
It was as if nature itself were talking to her, telling her to relax and
prepare to rest for the night. Soon the
spangle of the celestial heavens would paint itself on the canvas of the sky
above. At times like this, with
everything so quiet and peaceful, it was often difficult for
Placing the cilanto in a dish,
An owl hooted somewhere in the distance.
A sudden flash winked at her from purple dimness of the
chaparral, and she blinked, jerking her eyes toward the source of the flash.
Heat lightning was not at all unusual in the desert, but she had seen no
clouds.
There was a smacking sound above her, followed by a
roaring boom, far too loud and sharp to be thunder. She heard a grunt and looked up to see the
guard clutch at his chest and tumble from the windmill, landing very hard in
the sand of the yard.
Gasping,
The gunfire roared in from the direction of the bunkhouse,
and she realized there too many guns to count.
Bullets kicked dust up all around Blue as he stood, staggering as he
drew his own pistol as he looked for something to shoot.
Apaches! It had to
be Apaches! The ranch was under attack!
Blue halted and fired at the bunkhouse, then continued
running toward the ranch house. He
caught
Apache war cries were suddenly heard, loud and wild, as
more and more bullets struck the adobe walls and chewed into wooden doors and
shutters. The door was secure for now,
and
"Blue!"
Blue saw her concern and tried to speak, but no words came
from his lips. Instead, he turned very
pale and seemed to lose strength.
Sinking to the floor, he handed her his pistol. As she took it from him, he collapsed face
down onto the terra cotta tiles.
"Blue!" she cried again, and she knelt beside
him and shook him. He still breathed,
but he had lost consciousness. Placing
the gun on the floor,
She pulled loose her apron, quickly ripped it in half, and
used it to clean the blood from Blue's wound.
Unless she could stop the blood flow, he would bleed to death.
Wadding a strip of apron into a ball, she stuffed it into
one side of the wound, then rolled Blue over to plug
the exit wound in the same way. It was
difficult, for Blue was very heavy, dead weight in his unconsciousness. Bullets continued to hit the ranch house, but
she ignored them as she used more of the cloth to form a compress, which she
tied off with even more strips of material.
"W-what's happening?" he asked.
"I am not sure,"
Mark ran to her as bullets thudded into the adobe
outside. Together, they lifted Blue and
placed him on the couch. Centered on the adobe wall between the two front doors, the
couch was sheltered from bullets.
"Go into the kitchen, and stay low," she told
Mark quickly. "The walls are
heavier. They will protect you."
"What about you?"
"I must stay with Blue."
"Then I'm staying, too."
"Please. I
must stay here, in case the Apaches break in.
I would feel much better if you were safe, so that I only had to worry
about one man at a time."
"Well, okay," Mark said reluctantly. "But is there anything I can do to
help?"
"Yes, you can hide!"
Mark got up and started across the room just as another
shower of bullets slammed into the house.
One penetrated the doorway and ricocheted across the room, striking the
door beside John's office. The sudden
flurry only caused Mark to rush into the kitchen faster.
She quickly checked the heavy Colt pistol Blue had given
her. It contained only four bullets, not
nearly enough for a battle. She moved to
Blue's side and began to extract fresh rounds from the loops in his belt. Placing two fresh cartridges into the pistol,
she put several more in her hand and brought the pistol up into firing
position.
Her hands trembled as she held the gun, and for the first
time since the attack began,
She had seen the ranch hand on the windmill shot, and she
knew he had died because of the way he had fallen. Most of the shots had come from the direction
of the bunkhouse, and that meant that the other hands guarding the ranch were
probably dead as well. Which meant she and Blue and Mark were alone against an unknown number
of Apache warriors.
She knew she could hold her own from inside the house, for
the thick walls afforded her protection the attackers would not have. The Apaches could try to batter down a door
or smash a shutter and gain entrance, and if so, she would have a fight on her
hands. If only one door were breached,
she might be able to hold them off for a while, but in the heat of a fight she
only had six shots, so she knew she had to make each one count.
Her real fear was that the Apaches would know how well
entrenched she was, and might set fire to the roof to drive them out. It would be difficult, for parts of the roof
were made of adobe as well, but it was possible, and there was enough exposed
wood for the Apaches to shoot fire arrows into.
She had no real defenses against such a
tactic.
"Hello the house!" a man's voice called
out. "Ya'll all right in
there?"
Boots thumped on the porch as a man walked up to the door.
"Anybody home?" the voice said again.
"Who is there?" she replied, pointing the pistol
at the door.
"Help, ma'am," the man's voice said with a
slight southern drawl. "My men and
I were happening by down the road a piece and we heard all the shootin'. Rode over
here quick to see what was going on, and we saw them Apaches shooting at the
house. We drew our guns and opened up on
'em. They was too busy trying to get to you to see us coming, so we
hit 'em from behind pretty hard. Must have surprised 'em,
too, 'cause they skedaddled right quick."
"They are gone?" she asked, not daring to hope.
"Yes, ma'am. Ran away like jackrabbits. We got a couple of 'em,
though. Ya'll all right in there?"
"We have one wounded,"
There was a pause.
"I'm afraid not, ma'am. You got one dead one here in the yard. There's two more over by the bunkhouse. Apaches shot 'em
coming out the front door. Sorry, ma'am."
Tears blinded
"If'n you need some help,
lady, I got me a few men with some medical savvy," the man said. "It ain't
much, but we'd be happy to oblige."
"Howdy. Ya'll
all right?"
"Yes, but my husband's son, he is hurt,"
"Where's this wounded fella?"
"Over here," she said, stepping aside as the man
entered and went to look at Blue.
Outside, the others began dismounting and tying their horses up.
"That's him!" Mark screamed from the kitchen
doorway. "That's the man who shot
my pa!"
"Leave her alone!" Mark yelled from the kitchen
doorway.
"Come here, kid," the man said. "I've got something for you."
She heard Mark scamper back into the kitchen, as more
boots sounded on the porch and men began to enter the front door.
Sod Chambers reached grabbed
"Hello, Sweetheart" Chambers said with a
grin. "Well, ain't
you pretty! You
sure got some nice legs. Saw 'em when you fell on the floor."
He looped the
Chambers let go of her as he turned his face away from her
slap, then he looked at her, frowned, and smashed a wicked open hand across her
face. His blow was far more powerful
than hers, and
Chambers pushed her over onto her back, straddling her
with his boots, then squatted above her as he pulled a
knife from a belt and pressed it against the hollow of her throat.
"That ain't no way to treat
someone who just rescued you," he said softly, his eyes dangerous. "Try that again and I'll carve you like
a Christmas goose." His eyes
softened then, and he grinned. "A pretty
thing like you needs love, honey, not a beating. And I got lots of love to give a spicy little
thing like you."
"That's the certain truth," said another man, a
big man with a black beard. "We all
got a little lovin' to give her. Likely she ain't had
a real man in quite a spell."
"Who are you?"
"Name's Sod Chambers, Sweety,"
he said after a moment. "And you
are a delicious little thing. But the fact
is, I only came for that boy in yonder."
"You killed his father!"
"Now, that just plain ain't
true," Chambers replied matter-of-factly.
"Truth is, his pa's alive. I
come here to fetch him back."
"You are lying."
Chambers knelt very low over her, holding the knife to her
throat, and
"Now, maybe I am, and then again maybe I ain't," he said, then he abruptly stood up. "Are you willing to take that
chance? Boy, you come out of there!"
"Run, Mark!"
"You shut up!" Chambers warned, his voice
turning to hot venom. "Here's the
deal, lady. You let me finish what I
come for, let me take that boy back to his pa, and my men and I will leave you
alone to doctor that wounded kid on the couch.
You buck us, though, and we might just have to take out our displeasure
on that wounded fella. You ain't really
got much choice. Trust me, and the kid
gets returned to his daddy. Fight me,
and you'll have to bury your wounded friend there. Your best bet is to cooperate. What do you say?"
"Boyle, kill that fella on
the couch," he said.
The bearded man kicked the couch over, tumbling Blue onto
the floor, then he grinned as he pulled his pistol.
"No!"
"You gonna do like we say,
woman?"
"Si. Please, do not hurt him!"
"Fine."
Chambers looked at the bearded man and nodded. Boyle Collins sighed and put his gun back in
the holster, then kicked Blue savagely in the ribs. Blue grunted in pain and fell off the couch
onto the floor.
"Stop it!"
"That's just a little reminder," Chambers told
her. "Cross me even a little and he
gets a lot more of the same. Comprende?"
"What is it you want?"
Chambers replaced his knife in his belt before
answering. "Like I said, I only
come to take the boy to his father. What
do I want? Just a little hospitality, I
reckon. It's been weeks since my men had
a home-cooked meal, ma'am. Man sorta gets lonely for a woman's cooking. I reckon what we want is a hot meal."
"The boy's father…he is really alive?"
"Sure as I'm standing here," Chambers said. "Sawbones over to Bisbee has him. Of course, he's all laid up with a busted
leg, but that's why I got sent to take the kid back. I sure ain't got
the time to fight with you, lady."
"You promise to take the boy to his father?" she
asked, searching his face.
"Yep," he replied.
"And you will leave Blue unharmed?"
"Is that the wounded fella's
name? Blue? Strange name. Is he a sad sort, or something?"
"Do you promise?"
"Yeah, I promise.
Look, lady, I done went and rescued you from Apaches, and then you up
and tried to shoot me. All I want to do
is take that kid and return him to where his pappy is. All my men want is a hot meal and a little
hospitality. Now, is that so danged much to ask?"
"Then will you leave us in peace?" she asked.
"Sure as the sky's blue, ma'am. Swear on a stack of bibles."
"You shot him," Mark's voice replied
angrily. "I saw you shoot
him!"
"I know you believe you saw me shoot him, boy, but I
didn't," Chambers replied. "It
was all a trick. A
ruse, to throw off them Apache.
Didn't you ever wonder why your pa brought you all the way out into
"We were going to
"Yeah, I know.
Going to
"It was for a friend of ours," Mark whined.
"Naw, that was just our
cover story, son," Chambers replied sadly.
"Your pa and I, well, we was workin' together.
Working for the law, you might say.
We got us an assignment from the Army.
They wanted us to find them some renegade Apaches what was buying guns
from traders. Your pa and me, we were
selected by the Army commander at
"It was bad timing on your pa's part, when ya'll rode up. If I hadn't
done something, those Apaches would have killed you for sure. I knowed who your
pa was the second he rode up, and he knew he was in trouble, too. We had to make it look real good, so he
jumped off that cliff while I pretended to shoot him. It worked, too. Them Apaches thought
he was dead. I missed him, of course,
but he got busted up in the fall off that cliff. We came back later and hauled him to the Doc
down in Bisbee, but he's going to be okay."
"Then why did you give me to the Apaches to
kill?" Mark yelled through the kitchen door. "If you're so all-fired friendly, why
did you tell them to torture me?"
"Well, we knowed they
wouldn't do that," Chambers said casually.
"We had us some good Apaches in that bunch,
ones that was helping us catch the renegades.
Them's the ones I
gave you to. I knowed
they wouldn't really hurt you. Think
about it. Weren't there a few friendly
Apaches who protected you?"
"Yeah," Mark's voice said, hesitatingly.
"Well, there you go," Chambers continued. "You think that was accidental? Them friendly Apache were in on it. Shortly after we rode off with the bad ones,
we knowed they'd take you to their camp and take care
of you, at least until your pa could send for you. Just yesterday, in fact, the Army captured
most of the bunch we identified up there.
We was following the few who got away when we
trailed them here to this ranch."
"How did you know I was here?"
"We didn't, until the telegraph from Bisbee
came. We was in
"
"Yeah, that's it.
The kitchen door cracked slightly, and a big brown eye
peeked out.
"Is my pa really alive?" Mark asked tentatively,
wanting fiercely to believe.
"Yes, boy. He really is.
We need to get going tonight if we want to be halfway to Bisbee by
tomorrow."
There was a thumping sound and the kitchen door opened,
and
"See, look, boy," Chambers said softly, almost
tenderly now. "I have your pa's
rifle. The one you saw me shoot him
with. He wanted me to bring it with me,
to show it to you, so you'd know he really sent me. He said you'd know this rifle anywhere."
"That's pa's rifle, all right," Mark
agreed. "Are we really riding to
Bisbee tonight?"
"I said we were, didn't I?" Chambers replied
with a grin.
"And you and pa were working for the Army?"
"Sure, we were.
Look here."
Chambers reached in the pocket of his vest and produced a
small rectangle. He turned the object
over so that Mark could see the twin sets of paired bars embroidered on the
top.
"See that, boy?
That's the rank of an Army captain.
It's my rank, when I'm not in civilian clothes. I'm army, all the way."
"Then Pa's really alive."
"He sure is."
Mark hopped up and down a few times before becoming
self-conscious about it.
Had she shaken him up by trying to cock the pistol?
She wondered what she should do. She had
seen Chamber's eyes switch from those of a snake to those of a dove far too
fast to suit her suspicions, and she was still distrustful and furious with the
man. For now, however, perhaps it was
best to play along and see what happened.
She started to step forward toward Mark, to take him into her arms and talk
to him, but Chambers quickly stepped between them.
"Stay out of this and everything will be all
right," Chambers whispered to her.
"You cause any trouble and that man on the floor will pay."
Her eyes moved instantly toward Blue. The heavy
bearded man sat on the couch, resting his feet on Blue's unconscious body as he
casually picked his fingernails with a large Bowie knife. The man was
surely lying. She felt it in her bones,
but there was little she could do about it.
To resist would possibly result in her getting Blue killed. By remaining passive, however, she might get
them to allow her to help Blue.
As long as we are
alive there is still hope, she told herself. If we
can hold out long enough, John will return home, and then we will see who pays
for this.
"I will go and make coffee," she said sullenly,
and stepped into the kitchen.
"Good, that's more like it," Chambers yelled
after her. "Some beans and some of them tortilla things you Mex people like, that'd be good, too. Ol' Boyle there,
he's kinda partial to them tortillas."
"Will you be staying for supper?" she asked
coldly.
"Well, I'll take a plate or two and then me and the
boy are riding out," Chambers told her, his smile charming again. "It's a long way to Bisbee, you see, and
me and the boy have a few accounts to settle."
Mark put on his hat and stepped toward the door.
"I'm ready to go and see my pa," he said
firmly. Chambers chuckled.
"Ain't you hungry,
kid?"
"I had a sandwich before the Apaches attacked. You sure the Apaches have gone?"
"Weren't no more than eight,
ten tops," Chambers replied.
"Yeah, they're long gone.
Now, why don't you just go on out there and saddle you a horse,
boy."
Mark nodded and started out the door, pulling up short as
he saw the dead guard lying in the yard.
"It's okay, boy, them Injuns got him," Chambers
told him. "Don't you worry none, he can't hurt you.
Go on and get that horse saddled.
Go on!"
Mark hesitated, then stepped off
the porch into the darkness. Chambers
looked after him a long moment, grinning, then turned toward his men.
"You boys help her see after that wounded fella, will ya? Boyle, step out here on the porch with
me. We need to jaw a little."
Boyle stood on Blue with his boots before stepping off,
his Bowie knife in hand as he followed Chambers out onto the porch.
"You really riding out with
that kid?" Boyle Collins asked.
"Yep."
"I don't get it, Sod.
Why not just put a bullet in that kid and be done with it? Then we could kill that other fella, take that woman a few times, and be halfway to the
border by sunup."
"Oh, call it poetic justice," Chambers replied
with a smile as he stared out into the night, listening to Mark saddle a
horse. "I shot the father out in
the desert. Only fits that I kill the
son right there beside him."
"You're loco, Sod.
That's a damned long ride."
"I got the time, Boyle. I want to make sure this kid's dead this
time. I want to personally plant him in
the ground. I ain't
gonna have him come back to haunt me a second
time. I want to be sure this time, and I
want to bury him where he will never be found."
Boyle frowned and spat in the dust.
"I still don't know why you don't just slit all of
their throats right now," he said sourly.
"Too easy," Chambers replied. "Besides, you do want a hot meal, don't
you? Best you get on that pretty lady's
good side if you wanna eat. At least until supper's over."
Boyle looked Chambers in the eye.
"And after that?"
"Well, I reckon you can share her between you for a
while. When you've finished with her,
make sure she can't talk. Make it look
like Apaches did it. Don't kill the
wounded fella until you have her scalp tied on your
belt. That way, she'll cooperate and
you'll get to use her a lot longer. But
you boys need to light a shuck outta here long before
mid-day tomorrow, or them ranch hands will come back
and you'll have a fight on your hands. If'n I was you, I'd eat me some supper before you started
making sport with the cook. I'm kind of
sorry I'll miss that. She's awful
pretty. I could use me a little time makin' love to a woman like that, but I'll leave her to you
boys.
"Remember, after you slit her throat,
make it look like Injuns did it. If the
law or the Army comes by, I want them going after them Chiricahua,
not after us. Same for
the hands when they get back.
Leave a trail right back to them Apache camps in the Dragoons. Shouldn't be too hard, Boyle. We already faked one Apache raid tonight, and
a rescue. Leaving an Apache trail should
be easy for you."
Boyle nodded and wiped the
"Head to
"What about Cannon and his hands?" Boyle
asked. "He ain't
likely to be fooled, since you sent him off yonder on a snipe hunt. He'll figure you were in on it, and when he
finds out we killed his woman and son, then—"
"He'll think it was Apaches, too," Chambers
replied. "If you
do it up right. Shoot some of
them Apache arrows we have into the wood of the house. Burn the bunkhouse. Make sure you scalp and butcher these two and
those three dead men out there. Mutilate
'em, too, like Injuns do. And when you ride out, cover the horses'
hooves with buckskin or rags. Makes 'em look unshod.
He'll be fooled, too, if you do that.
Don't worry so much, Boyle. As
for the woman, well, she ain't no
white woman, Boyle, she's Mex. Ain't likely no white folks are gonna
raise no stink over a dead Mexican woman, even if she is John Cannon's
gal."
"I gotta hand it to you
Sod, you sure think on your feet," Boyle told him after a moment. "Making up that story to decoy Cannon
off all the way to nowhere, and then making up that yarn to get the kid to go
along with you. I actually think they
bought that line of hogwash you fed 'em."
"Maybe."
Boyle's eyes drifted down to the
"You gonna shoot the kid
with his pa's rifle?"
"Now, that would be too cruel," Chambers
replied. "Here. You keep it until you meet up with me down in
He tossed the rifle to Boyle, who caught it, admiring it
in his right hand.
Mark rode up into the light on a big dun.
"I'm ready."
"I will be in a moment," Sod said, and he
stepped into the house, returning a moment later with a handful of fresh corn
meal tortillas. "Okay," he
said, mounting his horse. "Let's
ride to Bisbee, boy. Your pa's sure gonna be glad to see you."
Boyle stood in the darkness on the porch, admiring the
The first thing he was going to do was get a hot meal, and
after that he was going to get him a hot Mexican gal.
The door closed behind him as he entered the ranch house,
throwing the sandy yard into darkness.
After a long moment of silence, the crickets began
chirping again.
V
HIGH CHAPARRAL
RANCH, EAST OF THE HACIENDA
It had been a long, hard ride that day for Lucas and
Manolito as they had headed toward the ranch house of the High Chaparral, and
they had not covered the distance as quickly as they had hoped. Now, the sun was setting in the west, and they
were still east of the ranch house.
They had been forced to walk Manolito's
horse much of the way, to keep it from giving out trying to carry both riders
in the hot sun. Now, as they rode the
tired stallion toward the lights of the ranch, Manolito became more animated.
"It will be good to have a decent meal and a bed to
sleep in tonight, my friend," Manolito said, and Lucas nodded.
"Sure will. I
haven't had a decent meal in weeks.
It'll also be nice to get to shave and wash up for a change."
"I would imagine," Manolito agreed, his cheeks
dimpling. He pulled the canteen from his
saddle horn and handed it back to Lucas.
"Here, amigo, you need to
keep drinking."
"It's funny how important the little things are out
here," Lucas replied, taking the canteen.
"Things like shade…and water."
The sunlight faded and twilight arrived, and they rode
through the afterglow of sunset as the stars began to twinkle overhead one by
one. Gradually, darkness fell.
"I wonder what all that shooting was we heard
earlier," Lucas said.
"I do not know," Manolito replied, guiding the
horse toward the gate. "All looks
calm at the ranch, however. Perhaps
someone was shooting at targets."
"Sounded more like a war to me," Lucas said.
Lucas stared at the ranch house as they rode through the
gate in the darkness, admiring the front porch of the low-set hacienda, the
placement of the corral and the bunkhouse.
It was a big spread, far bigger than his own. Pausing, he looked up, admiring the size and
height of the windmill in the yard. A windmill such as he could never afford on his own ranch.
"Looks like quite an outfit," Lucas said in
admiration.
"The biggest in southern
"Looks like he has one now," Lucas replied.
Suddenly, Manolito stopped the horse and dismounted,
staring around suspiciously.
"What's wrong?" Lucas asked.
"Something strange. There is no guard on the windmill. Yet, there are many horses at the rail in
front of the house."
"Maybe it's this John Cannon and his men."
"No, those horses are not from the High
Chaparral," Manolito replied, watching the house closely. "All seems quiet, however. Perhaps they are the horses of my father's
men. My father had mentioned that he
would be visiting us in June in his letter last month. Perhaps he has finally come, but I cannot see
their brands in the dark."
"So, why do you think the lookout's not on the
windmill?" Lucas asked.
Manolito shrugged.
"There's no telling," he sighed. "Sometimes my father, he likes to throw
a party. Sometimes he invites all of the
hands to come inside for supper. If John
Cannon is not here to enforce discipline, there are times when my father's…ah, exuberance, can overwhelm even the best
of ranch hands."
Lucas grinned.
"So, you think we're in time for the party?"
Manolito paused and tied his horse to a rail.
"I do not know," he said, knocking his hat off
the back of his head so that it dangled by its straps. "But if they are having a party, they
are being very quiet for Montoyas. Come inside, and I will introduce you to my
sister, and her husband, if he is home."
Lucas dismounted and stretched, then stepped up on the
porch to follow Manolito inside the door.
Manolito went to the leftmost of two wooden doors and pulled it open,
then stepped inside.
A gun butt smashed Manolito across the back of the head as
soon as he entered the doorway, and he collapsed in a heap.
"Manolo!" a female
voice screamed, and Lucas burst into action, slamming the door shut hard, then
yanking it open again almost instantly.
A smaller man staggered away, stunned by the sudden impact of the door. He held a gun in his hand,
butt forward, as he tripped over Manolito's body.
Lucas grabbed the arm holding the gun with his left hand,
and his right grabbed a bunch of the man's shirt and shoved. The man gasped as Lucas picked him up off the
floor and threw him bodily into an adobe wall.
The man's pistol tumbled out of his hand as the breath was smashed from
his lungs. Lucas turned to pick up the
gun and a voice froze him in place.
"You touch that gun, mister, and you're a dead
man," a deep voice boomed.
Lucas froze, moving only his eyes up as someone brought a
lamp up to full brightness. A fire
blazed in a fireplace to the right, and Lucas made out several men standing
around the room. Another lay wounded on
the couch, bandaged and unconscious.
Lucas fixed his eyes on the apparent leader, a wide-shouldered man with
a black beard that reached to his chest.
His eyes then dropped to the rifle the man held pointed at his belly,
and he instantly recognized it as his own.
A beautiful Mexican woman rushed past the bearded man,
holding an apron in her hands as she rushed to the side of Manolito, chattering
in Spanish as she checked his head for injury.
"Hold up there, woman," the bearded man
growled. "Red, get that vaquero's hogleg."
A red-haired man stepped forward and yanked Manolito's Colt from its holster. The man whom Lucas had body slammed into the
wall slowly stood and dusted himself, glaring at Lucas with hate-filled eyes.
"I think this feller needs cuttin'
down to size," the small man said.
"Not by you," the bearded one replied. "He's got a hundred pounds on you, Buckeye. Red, take a gun and get outside up there on
the windmill, where that guard was before you shot him. I don't want anyone else coming in here
unannounced."
"Sure, Boyle," Red replied, pausing at the door
to look Lucas up and down. "Well,
I'll be," he exclaimed. "It's
that sodbuster Sod kilt some days back.
Looks like you're going to get a chance to kill him all over again,
Boyle."
Lucas realized he had found the gunrunners in one sudden
bitter instant. Boyle and the others
began to laugh, and Lucas knew he had jumped out of the frying pan and right
into the fire.
Somebody was about to get burned, and it looked like it
was going to be Lucas McCain.
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