The Comancheros, page 13
“Yes sir. Also our Ranger company at Amarillo is close to full strength now. With Red Hawk backing off, we’ll be able to focus more on the central and west panhandle—”
Mac said, “And a little down south. But I guess Crowley and his girlfriend’ll take care of that.” He smirked.
Edwards looked at him sharply, then back to the colonel. “Sorry about that, Colonel. Ranger McFadden here apparently doesn’t trust Ranger Crowley’s judgement.” He paused. “We have had a little comanchero activity southwest of Amarillo. ‘Course that’s nothing for you to worry about. Anyway, Red Hawk backing off tightens things up a little for us too.” He glanced at Mac again, then back to the colonel. “And actually, the more we accomplish in the central and western panhandle, the less the southwest will be a problem.”
He paused. “Which leads me to the third bit of news: We’re also shifting our focus more toward ending the comancheros’, especially Messina. Do you know or have you heard of any others up here, sir?”
“No.” He paused. “Well, there was one name mentioned—Alvarez, I think—but he was more in the east side than the west.”
“Yes sir. But Red Hawk also told me he and his braves bushwhacked Alvarez and his bunch over in the Nation. Wiped ‘em out.”
The colonel sat forward. “Now that is very good news. Not only is Red Hawk backing away, he’s also helping us clean up the state.” He reached for the bottle. “That deserves another drink.” When he’d topped off all the glasses, he sat back. “Actually we hadn’t seen Alvarez. He was only a rumor, but one I thought we were going to have to address.”
“Yes sir. Well, he’s gone. So unless you’ve heard of any others, there’s only Messina now. Also, we found out he was shipping women south using the trains. We disrupted that a few weeks ago. So right now we figure he’s trying to think of a new way to do things.”
“Well, I haven’t heard of any others. Let’s hope they aren’t out there. Maybe between us we can end him once and for all.”
“Yes sir, that’s the hope.”
“Let me get my sergeant and my lieutenants in and we’ll see if we can concoct a plan. And you’ll let your captain know what we come up with?”
“Yes sir. With your permission we’ll stay the night here. After that we have a patrol to finish, but I expect we’ll be back in Amarillo the day after tomorrow.”
*
Corporal Connolly, Stanton, and Lawson, having left Amarillo an hour before sunrise, were within a few miles of the border of New Mexico Territory before dark. During the trip west, they’d seen no sign of Comanche or comanchero activity. Then again, they hadn’t expected to. Messina himself typically operated in the north and northwest of the panhandle.
The Rangers thought Messina might have a lieutenant or two in New Mexico Territory, possibly in the area of Portales, from which they raided the Hereford-Canyon area on occasion. But on this trip, that wasn’t their problem. With any luck, Rangers Crowley and Mendoza and Deputy May would be able to update their intell on that when they all got together again.
They allowed their horses to drink from a rancher’s low, earthen stock tank. Away to the east they could just make out the railroad tracks glimmering in the last rays of the sun. Connolly said, “All right, we’ll head north from here. You guys know the drill. Same as we did before. We’re in no hurry, so we’ll take our time. Watch for wagon tracks and shod horse tracks.”
When the horses stopped drinking, they all started north, taking turns letting their horses walk or lope. An hour or so later and with nothing of note to report, they made camp.
The second day they saw nothing but desert, sagebrush, and yucca growing from clumps of yellow grass. Lawson quipped, “Man. Miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles.” They continued, alternately walking and loping their horses.
*
Midmorning on the third day, all three Rangers were walking their horses. They were approaching the same wagon tracks Lawson had spotted during their earlier trip. They were the same tracks, a couple of weeks old, and they led due west and east. There were no more-recent tracks.
Lawson was out front as usual, checking the ground. Corporal Connolly and Stanton rode a few yards behind him. They were talking and occasionally glancing down at the seemingly endless sand.
But the eagle-eyed Lawson caught a bright glint in his left periphery. He thought he knew what it was, so he didn’t look. Instead he slowed his horse slightly. Quietly, he said, “Corporal, Blake, don’t say anything, but ya’ll come on up alongside me.”
He continued walking his horse and the glint flashed again off to the west. Then again.
The corporal moved up on his left. Stanton moved up on his right.
Connolly said, “What’s wrong? You see somethin’?”
“Sunlight hit a telescope out to the west. Three times in the last minute or so.”
“How far?”
“I didn’t look. I didn’t want to give away that I saw it. But I figure he can’t be more’n a half-mile or so, maybe closer.”
Connolly nodded. “Well, we got nothin’ better to do. Let’s go have a chat with him.” He paused. “When I turn my horse, ya’ll turn too. Then we’ll go hard.”
Lawson nodded.
Stanton said, “Got it.”
Connolly reined-in, turned his horse to the west, and leaned into an all-out gallop.
Stanton and Lawson were right behind him, one to either side.
Less than a quarter-mile away, a man ran from behind a clump of mesquites, his apparent target a larger clump.
Then a horse ran out from behind the second clump and charged past the man, who lunged for the reins, missed, and fell to his hands and knees in the sand.
His horse had stopped some thirty yards away.
He cursed, scrambled to his feet and ran toward his horse, heavily favoring his left leg. The horse started backing away.
The man’s hair was greying black and mussed, and a dark brown or black sombrero dangled over a black vest and a white shirt from a chin strap. He threw up both hands and cursed, yelling at the horse.
The man hadn’t covered half the distance to the horse before Corporal Connolly, his Colt drawn, rode between them, reined-in and cut him off.
The man stopped and grabbed for the revolver on his hip.
Chapter 30
Corporal Connolly laughed. “If you’re lookin’ for your pistola, it’s back there where you fell.” He gestured with his Colt. “Good thing, too. I’m a Texas Ranger, hombre. If you’d’a skinned that thing, I’d’a killed you where you stood.”
His hand still on his empty holster, the man glared up at Connolly, then glanced back at his revolver, laying in the sand. Then he looked left and right, where he found two more Rangers with their guns drawn and pointed at him.
But he seemed to look beyond the Rangers too, and Connolly noticed. “Hey, you got friends out here with you? Tus amigos? Where are they?”
The man looked at the ground and shook his head. “No, no amigos. I am alone.” Then he raised his hands to near his shoulders. In halting English, he said, “Pero I wasn’t doing nothing.”
Connolly said, “Yeah, I saw that. Well, nothin’ but tryin’ to catch that horse. But what’re you doin’ out here alone anyway? And why were you watchin’ us?”
The man looked up and scowled. “It is not your business. I have a right to be where I want to be.”
Connolly nodded. “Yes sir, and that’s all fine. Only you were watchin’ us through a telescope and I want to know why.”
The man looked at him for a moment, as if trying to decide something. Then he glanced around, as if searching again. Finally, he said, “May I sit down please? My knee hurts. I think I hit it on a rock maybe.”
Connolly gestured with his Colt. “Sure. Take a load off.”
The man crouched, then sat on his right hip, his left leg straight. He looked up at Connolly. “Okay.” He paused. “You and your men, you were looking at the tracks, verdad? Two weeks ago and again today? The wagon tracks?”
“Maybe.”
“But the wagon, it belongs to señor Messina and—”
Red mist exploded from the side of his head and he fell over.
A gunshot sounded, a carbine or rifle.
Stanton yelled, “Come on!” then wheeled his horse to the right and galloped away with Lawson right behind him.
Connolly looked at the Mexican man for only a second, then reined his horse around and followed the other two.
By the time he got there, it was almost over.
*
Lawson was a head behind Stanton on the left as they thundered over a low rise and started down the other side.
To the left-front maybe forty yards away, two men, one heavy and one maybe half his size. Both were Mexicans, both in straw sombreros. Then the heavy one was hefting himself up onto his horse. The thin one, the reins in his left hand and clinging tenaciously to a carbine with his right, was trying to clamber up onto his horse. But the carbine slipped off the saddle and he fell to his back. A bandolier of ammunition crossed from his right shoulder to his left hip.
To the right, maybe twenty yards away, a third man, also a Mexican of average size and dressed much the same as the others, had mounted and was swinging his horse around to the north. But halfway through the arc to the west, he apparently thought better of it and pulled his revolver. After all, two Rangers were passing left to right in front of him, and they were focused on the other two men. He brought his revolver up, leveled it carefully across his left forearm, and—
Still at a full gallop, Lawson fired past Stanton’s back.
The man on the right yelped, clawed at his chest and fell backward out of the saddle.
His horse, eyes wide, skittered away to one side, then began calmly nibbling on a few clumps of yellow grass.
The man lay on his back, his revolver still in his hand at the end of his outstretched right arm.
Of the two remaining men, the heavier one on the left had mounted. Gaping at the Rangers’ sudden approach, he fumbled at his revolver and was bringing it to bear when Stanton shot him twice in the chest.
For a second the man only stared. He fell out of the saddle just as Stanton fired a third time.
His horse remained where it was, only curving its neck to glance back at the heavy man once.
The man still clinging to the carbine scrambled to his feet and reached for the saddle again. Again the carbine slipped on the slick leather and he cursed.
His fat friend lay on the sand beneath his horse.
He wheeled around, looked up from beside his horse, his eyes wild and hungry.
The Rangers were right there. Right in front of him. Messina would reward him well for bringing down two Rangers.
He yelled, dropped the carbine, and reached frantically for his revolver.
And both Rangers put a bullet in his chest.
As his horse skittered away to the right and both horses moved a few steps away to the west, he jerked backward, arched his back one time, then lay still, his head lolling to the right.
Lawson, his eyes wide, yelled, “They both dead?”
Stanton was already off his horse. He yelled, “Go check the first one!” As he ran toward the two horses, he yelled again and waved his left hand and his Colt.
Both horses backed away, sniggering.
His gun pointed at the man, Stanton looked for a moment. Then he picked up the man’s revolver and turned away.
Lawson had ridden his horse to the first man. He dismounted and started toward him just as Connolly came over the rise. He yelled, “Lawson, don’t—”
There was an explosion.
Lawson jerked, staggered left and looked down. Then he brought up his revolver and shot the man in the face. As he turned away, he angrily holstered his Colt and gripped his left side with his right hand. “Damn it!” He pulled his hand away and looked at it. His hand and that side of his shirt was soaked with blood.
Connolly dismounted and ran to him. “Let me see it.”
Lawson stopped moving, adjusted his feet to balance himself, and pulled his right hand away just as Connolly grabbed his shoulders.
Stanton arrived at the same time, his eyes wide. “Damn, man!”
There was a neat hole maybe a half-inch from Lawson’s left side, a few inches above his gun belt. His shirt was stippled with something black an inch wide all around the hole.
Still looking down, Lawson muttered, “Ruined my damn shirt!”
Connolly turned him around and looked at his back. Another hole. Through and through. He shook his head and chuckled quietly. “A few inches to the right, it would’a ruined your entire Ranger.”
He pulled his bandanna from his neck and ripped it in half, then looked up at Lawson. “Either one of you boys bring any whiskey?”
Stanton said, “No sir. Ain’t allowed, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. Go get that bottle out of my right saddle bag.”
Stanton turned and ran toward Connolly’s horse.
Connolly called after him, “No rush. Walk. Don’t break the bottle.”
“Yes sir.” Stanton found the bottle, pulled it out, and walked back to Connolly.
Connolly wadded up half the bandanna, then soaked it in whiskey and handed Stanton the bottle. He looked at Lawson. “This is gonna hurt some, but it’s necessary, all right?”
As Lawson nodded, Connolly said, ‘Sides, it’ll hurt a hell of a lot more later.” Then he stuffed the wadded-up, whiskey-soaked bandanna into the hole in the front as Lawson gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists.
To give Lawson something to do, Connolly said, “Put your hand over that.” Then he rolled up the other half of the bandanna, soaked it in whiskey, and passed the bottle back to Stanton. “Put the cork in that and put it away.”
As Stanton turned away, Connolly stuffed the soaked, wadded-up bandanna into the other hole.
Lawson said, “Jesus, I feel full.”
“You’re full all right. Don’t you know not to walk up on a man who’s been shot?”
“I do now.”
“Unless you know he doesn’t have his gun, don’t do that.” Connolly inspected his handiwork. “I don’t think the bullet hit anything important, but you’ll be laid up for a few days. Can you ride all right? It’ll take us some hours to get back to Amarillo.”
Lawson only nodded. “Should we maybe go to Dalton?”
“I wouldn’t let that doctor work on my imaginary friends, much less my real ones.” He paused. “Get on your horse. If you feel those wads coming loose, tell me. I’ll tear up your shirt and bandage it. Otherwise you should be all right.” Connolly looked around at Stanton. “C’mon, Blake, we’re headin’ back, quick as we can get there. You lead. I’ll hang back with Lawson. Cut off the corner we took. Take a direct route to Amarillo.”
“Yes sir.” Stanton mounted up and they all headed southeast.
Chapter 31
Normally Corporal Connolly would have led his Rangers to search the area around the sand hills to the north for any other bad actors. Comancheros always worked in odd numbers—three, five, seven—but there had been only four at the scene.
But with Lawson being wounded—maybe severely, only the doctor would know—his priorities shifted. He could only think of getting the kid back to town as quickly as possible. And even minutes might make the difference.
As the Rangers rode away to the southeast, a lone figure lay face-down in a stand of mesquites only one Sandhill to the north of where the battle had taken place. Only his head was raised, and only enough to be certain they left and of their direction. And to be sure they wouldn’t turn back.
But soon after the Rangers reached the railroad tracks some half-mile distant—he could tell because they slowed their galloping mounts to a walk to negotiate the tracks—he rose to his knees.
Then a steam whistle sounded, followed almost immediately by the heavy clacking of the gears on a locomotive and the singing of the steel wheels on the steel rails.
As he obeyed the sound and looked to the north, the train flashed past, slicing through his view of the receding Rangers. Slicing them from the corner of his experience. His last sight of them was one in the front, two in the back, leaning into a gallop again and still heading southeast.
He stood, picked a mesquite branch off his shirt sleeve, pinned there by a short thorn. As a small spot of blood spoiled the arm of his shirt, he turned and made his way down the north slope to his waiting horse.
“José,” he muttered, “this is destiny.” For whatever reason, the Rangers hadn’t seen him. And for whatever reason, one of them had been wounded badly enough to call off their mission. Then the train had come through just after they crossed the tracks, cutting them off from him forever.
He would ride to Paco Messina, as he was obviously destined to do. He was the messenger in this instance, and one obviously anointed by destiny, to bring this news to Messina. The news that his train watchers had been massacred.
Well, all but him. But that’s what fate was all about. He had been left alive to carry the message. Messina would see that when José told him about the train slicing the Rangers off. Messina would not suspect him or find him lacking. He would recognize the destiny involved and reward him.
He mounted his horse, turned north and entered into a gentle lope. No need to punish his horse. No need to run it out.
It would take the Rangers at least a full day to get back to Amarillo, if that’s where they were going. And only Amarillo lay to the southeast. They wouldn’t arrive until around midnight, and that’s if they continued to ride hard.
He, on the other hand, would ride due north almost casually and then slightly northeast to Messina’s camp. He would arrive relaxed and with the ability to do more in about five hours.
*
When José Jaramillo walked his horse into Paco Messina’s camp, the great man himself had just exited his tent. He walked to a mesquite and emptied the contents of his liquid waste container—an old whiskey bottle—into a prairie dog hole, then chuckled. “Have a drink, my little friends.”
