Assignment, page 11
Ringley crouched next to him and helped him tug the boot off. He held it up. Thin wood pegs protruded from where the heel of the boot should be. “I’ll be damn! Look at that! The heel’s gone.”
Wes pointed. What was left of his boot heel lay at the end of the boardwalk some twenty yards away. “You wanna get that? Might still be good.”
Ringley laughed and shook his head, then reached to pat Wes’ left cheek lightly. “I guess ol’ Pinchot won’t be naming his horse today.”
Chapter 23
After Corporal Ringley retrieved Wes’ boot heel, the stacked leather of which had a large, concave dip in the front of it, he helped Wes to his feet. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Ain’t nothin’ hurt but my pride.” Once he was standing, his right boot in his left hand, he looked up at Ringley and grinned. “That was some fine, accurate shootin’ you did.” He paused. “Well, once you decided to stop spottin’ him points. For a minute there I thought you were gonna let him reload.” He laughed as he limped along beside Ringley, his right leg a good two inches shorter than his right.
“Yeah, well, I saw it was Simkins. I was hopin’ he’d quit on his own.”
Wes nodded. “And he did, eventually.”
“All right.”
By the time they got to Simkins’ body, Mr. Parley had arrived in his wagon. As he stepped carefully down from the seat, two younger men piled out of the back and stepped up on the boardwalk.
Parley looked at Ringley and smiled his tight-lipped smile. “Well, we meet again, Ranger Ringley. Not for the last time, of course.”
“Not yet, Mr. Parley.” He held up his left hand. “Have your boys hold off for just a minute, would you?”
One of the young men was leaning over Simkins’ head and reaching for his shoulders. He straightened and stepped back.
Ringley and Wes knelt alongside the body.
The man’s shirt bore three blackened red holes: one where his badge should have been, one through the center of his right shirt pocket, and one just above his solar plexus.
Wes looked up at Ringley. “Well,” he said quietly. “I appreciate it, Jason. I’m glad it ain’t one of us.”
Ringley only nodded, then straightened and looked at Parley. “Go ahead. He might have folks in Laredo or somewhere. You might send ‘em a telegram and ask. He was a Ranger up there.”
Mr. Parley’s eyebrows arched. “He was a Ranger?”
Ringley nodded, then stared at him. Quietly, patiently, he said, “It’s a long story. Just send ‘em a telegram, okay?”
Parley studied him for a moment and nodded. “Yes sir. Yes sir, I’ll do that.”
“Thanks.” Ringley glanced back. “C’mon, Wes, let’s go talk to the captain. Then I’ll show you where you can get that boot fixed.”
Wes brushed past Parley without acknowledging him, and he and Ringley moved on down the boardwalk.
*
The captain was coming toward them. He met them halfway to the office. He frowned. “What was all that about?”
Ringley said, “Simkins. He was drunk. Took a couple shots at us. He’s dead.”
The captain arched his eyebrows. “Witnesses?”
Wes said, “He scared the crap out of a bunch of civilians, but they all disappeared in short order.”
Ringley said, “Harley Scrimshaw was going by on his wagon. He saw the start of it.”
Wes said, “And some of the good citizens might come forward if you ask ‘em. We just came around the corner from the livery stable and he started shootin’.”
The captain looked at both men. “Well, I guess we can be grateful nobody else was—” He stopped and looked at Wes’ boot, which Wes was still carrying in his left hand.
Wes held it up and grinned. “He shot my boot.”
“But not your foot?”
Wes grinned. “No sir. Slapped the heel clean off though. Must’a caught me in mid-stride.”
Ringley said, “Mr. Parley’s gatherin’ Simkins up. He’s gonna send a telegram to Laredo, see if he had any folks anywhere.”
The captain nodded. “Good. That it?”
Ringley said, “That’s all I can think of, sir. I want to show Wes over to Matt Ferguson’s place, get that boot fixed, and then—”
“Listen, did the Mexican man at the train station tell you his name?”
Wes said, “No sir. And I was the only one who talked with him, but he died pretty quick.”
The captain nodded. “Well, according to Simkins, his name was Pedro Sandoval.”
Ringley frowned. “Sandoval? So he’s related to Rincón?”
“Probably his brother or cousin is my guess.”
“Wow.”
“So I’m just sayin’, be ready.” The captain paused. “And while we’re on the topic, what about your little trek this morning? You didn’t cross into Mexico, did you?”
Wes said, “No sir, we didn’t.” He gestured. “Now, we only tracked ‘em as far as the river. Probably a dozen or so barefoot women bein’ herded along by two men in boots. From the dirt thrown off the tracks, they were in a hurry. On the south side, they loaded ‘em into a wagon and headed south. But we stopped at the river.”
The captain nodded, then looked at his corporal. “That the official story?”
Ringley met his gaze. “That’s what happened, Captain, no story to it.”
The captain looked at him for an extra moment, then looked away. “All right. Get that boot fixed, then come see me in the office. Both of you. There’s still the matter of disobeying a direct order. Understand?”
Ringley said, “Yes sir. I understand perfectly.”
The captain turned tersely and headed back toward the office.
*
Not quite an hour later, Ringley and Wes were standing tall in front of the captain’s desk. The captain remained seated and looked up at them. “Corporal Ringley, I’m disappointed. I should never have to tell you not to disobey a direct order, should I?”
“No sir.”
“Yet you willfully disobeyed my direct order not to inspect the trains that come into Brownsville, didn’t you?”
“Yes sir, I did.”
Wes said, “Now sir, that wasn’t really Corporal Ringley’s fault. I suspect he—”
The captain jerked his head around. “Be still, Ranger Crowley! I’ll deal with you in a moment.”
“Yes sir.”
The captain nodded, then shifted his gaze to Corporal Ringley again. “Now, to assure Ranger Crowley here that you will not require his fine defense, you should know that this is an unofficial reprimand. Nothing will be written down, and nothing official will go into your jacket. I don’t even have any witnesses present other than Ranger Crowley here, whom I’m certain would lie, cheat and steal to protect you. But let me be clear: if you ever disobey a direct order from me again, I won’t rest until you are drummed out of the Rangers. Is that understood?”
Ringley nodded. “Yes sir, I understand.”
The captain nodded. “Well, good. That being said, I want you to trust that you can come to me and talk with me about any orders with which you disagree.” He put up one finger. “Now, had you asked my permission to search those stock cars, I still would have told you no. But that’s based on the orders I received personally from the governor. He has his own reasons, which I’m sure are tied to politics. But you men live in the real world, not the political world.” He looked at Wes. “Isn’t that right, Ranger Crowley?”
Wes frowned. “Yes sir, we do.”
“Now, fortunately, in disobeying my order, you men discovered something I never would have suspected in a million years.” He paused. “Well, two things really. You uncovered how the comancheros or whoever are moving women to the south, and you also revealed what amounted to a traitor among our own corps.” He paused again, then pushed his chair back, stood and put his hands behind his back.
“And because your disobedience revealed those two things, this whole matter has forced me to reconsider my own role here.” He paused. “And the fact is, gentlemen, I’m not really a Ranger anymore. Not like you men are.”
Corporal Ringley said, “Oh, now sir—”
The captain put up one hand to stop him. “Because the fact is, I have to live in both those worlds. On the one hand, I’m the governor’s representative, so I must obey his orders. But on the other hand, I’m your captain, and the only orders you have to obey are mine. Understand?”
Corporal Ringley nodded and frowned slightly. “Yes sir. I mean, I believe so.”
“The upshot is, I’ve decided to do my job better. As the representative of the governor, I will obey his orders to the letter.” He shrugged. “So for example, I will never personally inspect a train. But in the real world, effective immediately, I’m rescinding my order to you not to search the trains. Just because you’ve disrupted Sandoval’s flow for now doesn’t mean he won’t return to it sometime in the future.”
Wes and Ringley both grinned.
The captain glanced at them, then looked away. “Likewise, per the governor’s order, I will never lead a troop of Rangers into Mexico in pursuit of Sandoval.” He looked at his corporal again. “But you, Corporal Ringley, aided by your accomplice here, will put together a raiding party of Texas Rangers and go after Mr. Sandoval. Diligently and with as much prejudice as you can muster.”
“Yes sir!”
“Have a plan for me by tomorrow morning at 8 a.m.” He paused. “That’s all.” The captain dropped into his chair, then looked up and gestured. “Go on, get out of here.”
Both Ringley and Wes headed for the door.
Chapter 24
The wagon was waiting in the darkness on the south side of the river. And to either side were two or three men on horseback. Security for the shipment.
José Alarcón was glad the wagon was on time. He was glad they wouldn’t have to wait for it, or march farther south after the women exited the river. He was glad too that it was nighttime and that the sand had only been warm on the soles of the women’s feet instead of scorching hot.
A month ago during a delivery in the heat of the middle of the day, they’d had to wait two hours. But rather than simply sitting in the shade of the gracious mesquites and waiting, Ramón Martinez had insisted they move the women farther south along the trail the wagon would eventually use to get to them.
That was not a good thing. Even captive women come to a moment when they will go no farther, and that moment had occurred not quite a mile south of the river. One of the women—actually, the one who had become José’s favorite over the two days it had taken them to move the women south in the train—sat down beside the trail, crossed her arms over her chest, and said what was probably the only two words of Spanish that she knew. “No mas.”
Of course, Ramón, the fool, had not seen that as a problem. He’d stopped and looked at her, then gestured. “Get up,” he said in Spanish. “We must continue a little farther.”
But the woman resolutely shook her head. She understood the gesture if not the language. “No.”
And just as José noticed and turned back—he was going to drag the woman to her feet and start her south again—Ramón drew his revolver quickly as if in a gun fight and shot her between the eyes.
Matter flew from the back of her head as if in slow motion to spatter the mesquite, and the woman fell back, her arms flopping to either side of her almost diaphanous white dress.
For a moment, José could only stare.
In his mind, he charged Ramón, knocked him to the ground and straddled him, the knees of José’s pants working into the hot sand in the center of the wheel-rutted trail as he hit Ramón over and over, first with his left fist, then his right, then his left again. And when the man’s face was a thick red pulp, José had levered himself up and back, drawn his own revolver, and shot the bastard in the stomach. Then, while Ramón’s hands were busy clutching at his abdomen, José had bent and flicked Ramón’s revolver out across the sand so he couldn’t end his misery himself. With any luck, the cats who frequented the Rio Grande would find him before he bled-out and died.
In his mind.
But in reality, he tore his gaze away from the beautiful, graceful form of the woman, glanced sidelong at Ramón and mumbled a noncommittal, “Rincón will not like this.”
Then he turned and went back to the line of living women, who, staring past him as he approached, their eyes wide, were only too happy to turn away and continue trudging south. Some left tracks in the sand that were red but quickly turned black as the hungry desert soaked them in. But none of them complained. Which, he supposed Ramón would say, was his point.
And they’d gone less than a quarter-mile farther before he heard the wagon’s squeaking, rattling approach and Ramón had called a halt.
As the driver turned the wagon around, more easily done empty than full in the soft sand, he pointed and peered north at the minuscule bit of white fabric near the mesquite tree. “What is that?”
Ramón said, “It is nothing. Never mind.”
“But it is curious to me. What is it?”
Ramón settled his gaze on the man and his right hand touched the butt of his revolver. “One who questioned my orders.”
For a moment, the driver went silent. And when he had stopped the wagon again, now facing south, he only murmured, “Rincón will not like this.”
A comment for which Ramón hit a woman on the hip with his revolver as she clambered into the wagon. “Faster!”
And when they were all loaded, the wagon continued south to the rendezvous, the bit of white fabric in the north fading quickly.
*
So this time, José was very glad the wagon was waiting, its wheels pressing slightly into the black mud on the south bank of the river.
This time, too, the woman loaded themselves into the wagon quickly, probably relieved after the two-hour trek in the darkness from the train station. Some no doubt had acquired stone bruises on the bottoms of their beautiful feet. Surely many had stepped on the small mesquite branches that had fallen from the mother tree and dropped to the trail, always with at least a few thorns pointing up. And all had suffered small scratches from the thorns that grabbed at them from alongside the trail.
As always, José had noticed the limping and quiet whimpering only after the fact when he’d caught up with the main column. It had been his duty, again, as always, to use a live mesquite branch to sweep the trail for the first tenth of a mile or so from the station to eradicate the tracks.
And among this group, he had no personal favorites. He didn’t want to tempt the hateful magic that often inhabited this part of the desert. It was better not to bring disaster on a woman just because he liked her. Whatever awaited the women farther south, it would be better than the end of all things as represented by death from one of Ramón’s bullets.
After all, to continue was the ultimate purpose of living. Some would say hope for a better life was the purpose. But continuing was fundamental to hope.
When the women were all loaded—fourteen of them in all—Ramón drew his revolver, the starlight glinting off of it, and ordered the women to move farther forward. To “stack themselves,” as Ramón put it, then laughed, so he, José, could clamber into the back as well.
A few of the true women took the smaller ones on their lap. The load shifted forward enough that José had room to sit with his back against one low sideboard and extend his legs, his boots crossed at the ankles.
Ramón watched to make sure José took full advantage of the space, then walked to the front and boarded the seat alongside the driver. He nodded, said brusquely, “Vaminos.”
And the wagon started squeaking and rattling south.
Two men on horseback fell in behind the wagon on the right, and three fell in on the other side.
Later at least one on each side would peel away to be sure they weren’t being followed.
José would much rather be one of the horsemen and face death at the hand of an aggressive Ranger than to have to put up with Ramón Martinez any longer.
Maybe someday.
Chapter 25
Less than a tenth of a mile along the trail, the wagon squeaking and rocking and rattling, Ramón Martinez looked at the driver. “Why don’t you urge the nags to go faster? The night air will not warm from moving past more quickly.”
The driver looked at him, then turned his attention to the horses again and shook his head. “No. Señor Sandoval has told me before, he wants the delivery unspoiled by the rocking of the wagon. The fewer bruises the better. He will check.”
José watched the exchange and smiled slightly. If Ramón shot the man for his impertinence, José would become the driver and the sideboard of the wagon would no longer dig into his back.
But Ramón only glanced at the driver, opened his mouth as if to say something, then apparently thought better of it and turned his head to the front again.
José shifted his position against the side rail. Perhaps Ramón was smarter than he sometimes acted. Had José bet on that fact, he would surely have lost money. Maybe he only wanted to be sure José remained in the wagon and uncomfortable.
*
Almost two hours later, as the wagon approached a small junction and the eastern sky began to grow light, Rincón Sandoval and three of his men rode up from the east to meet the wagon.
As the driver of the wagon reined-in the horses, José bailed out of the back.
Sandoval walked his horse toward the wagon. He looked at Ramón Martinez. “I don’t see Pedro. Where is he?”
Unbelievably, Ramón Martinez remained seated as if he had no respect at all for Rincón. He shrugged. “He must have decided to remain in town. We haven’t seen him since we unloaded the women. I expected him to follow, but—” And he shrugged again.
Sandoval only looked at him for a moment, then turned his horse to walk it back alongside the wagon.
