Assignment, page 5
*
Hidden in a stand of salt cedar, Wes was thinking about shadows at the moment. Odd how things look different after dark. Probably it was a good thing Pinchot was back at the hotel. Wes grinned. He himself had drawn his Colt at shadows when he was a brand new baby Ranger. To his credit, he hadn’t actually fired, but he’d come close on more than one occasion. And nothing would spoil an ambush more quickly.
He glanced across at the dark form of the mesquite where Quincy Longstreet was hiding. He hadn’t talked much with the man, but he suspected Quincy had been around long enough to know what he was about. That was a comfort.
He turned his attention back to the river. But unless Sandoval had come up with a floating horse, the splashing would give him away if he came across.
Wes relaxed.
*
At the west end of town, Corporal Ringley and Rafe Elkins had climbed a ladder into the hay mow of a barn that overlooked the road and faced slightly northwest. They would be able to see a rider coming from close to a quarter-mile away.
For the first two hours or so there was only the sound of crickets.
Then one lone rider had approached and ridden past the barn, Elkins’ rifle following him all the way. But it wasn’t Sandoval. The man was dressed in a suit and rode stiffly. Probably a businessman who’d gotten a late start from somewhere up the trail. They watched him pass, the clopping of the horse’s hooves the only sound in the otherwise still night.
*
Just past the east end of town, the captain and Garcón had hidden their horses in a copse of mesquites and climbed a low hill. It overlooked both the road to the east and a little-used trail that led south to the Rio Grande.
The top of the hill had only sparse vegetation in the form of a little scrub mesquite and a creosote bush or two. It wasn’t enough to conceal anyone, but if they remained seated and motionless they would blend into the shadows well enough.
In the third hour, Garcón took it a step farther and lay back, his fingers interlocked behind his head, to look at the night sky.
The captain didn’t say anything. Sandoval probably wouldn’t come this way anyway.
Chapter 9
After a few days of careful planning, Captain Wilson was finally ready to put his still-tentative plan into action. He and his two corporals had studied the map, locating and dating the most recent attacks. They also assigned those attacks, according to the aftermath, to either Four Crows or Paco Messina.
There were two primary differences in the raids. At the sites of Four Crows’ attacks, nobody was left alive and there was evidence of horrific torture. In every case, the men were scalped, then kept alive to witness the disemboweling of the women and girls. Only younger males were most often killed outright.
At the sites of Messina’s attacks, only one woman had been found dead, her left arm draped over the body of her husband—the others had simply vanished—and there was little evidence of torture. For the most part, the men had been killed outright.
Messina and Four Crows had also apparently broken their groups into smaller raiding parties, as evidenced by the fact that one or the other seemed to have raided in two or three places almost simultaneously. But even Four Crows couldn’t be in more than one place at one time.
Finally, they realized the Comanche and the comanchero seemed to be swapping areas somewhat regularly. Four Crows would pull one to three raids in the west while Messina was doing the same in the east. Then they’d switch. Disturbingly, though, they weren’t working laterally. Instead, they seemed to be expanding, working around a clock face, the center of which was Amarillo. Which rendered the Rangers’ best guesses about where they might strike next just that: guesses.
Still, they had to do something.
And the most recent attacks had taken place only two nights earlier at 4 and 8 on that clock face.
Captain Wilson sent a telegram to Colonel Crutcher at Fort Perry asking him to send whatever patrols he could to cover No Man’s Land and the northern part of the panhandle. On his way back to the office, he stopped in to chat with Sheriff Potter and his deputies.
Then, a few hours before Wes and five other Rangers in Brownsville set out to establish three separate ambushes for Sandoval, most of the Rangers rode out of Amarillo in broad daylight.
Corporal Connolly and Rangers Lawson and Stanton rode out first, moving west-northwest at a leisurely pace. But after darkness fell, they turned their horses and rode hard due south, taking a wide berth past Amarillo. Connolly had a target area in mind.
From their location, to the south-southwest lay the town of Hereford, and to the southeast, the settlement of Canyon. In between was about 30 miles of rough country populated only by dry-land farmers. Neither Hereford nor Canyon had ever been struck specifically, maybe because of their proximity to Amarillo. Maybe too because Hereford was mostly a ranching and farming community that had nothing to offer the Indians but grain, which they could more easily get in places closer to their homeland. And Canyon had nothing to interest them at all.
But at the farms in between, there at least lay the opportunity to spread more terror. And that would also affect the citizens of Hereford and Canyon. And it would affect them without the Comanches taking the risks that would be associated with riding into either town.
*
Over time when they slowed their horses to a canter for the fourth or fifth time, Corporal Connolly drifted back and was talking with Stanton. As the two of them started up a low rise, from in front of them Ranger Lawson yelled, “Oh damn! Oh damn! Look!”
Connolly and Stanton, who had been laughing quietly a moment before, looked up.
Lawson had topped over the rise. He was standing in the stirrups, pointing and looking back over his shoulder.
The other two men spurred their mounts, and a moment later they topped over the rise next to Lawson.
In the distance, maybe a mile away, two fires raged, one twice the size of the other.
Connolly said, “Let’s go!” He spurred his horse and rode down the hill, Lawson and Stanton following close behind. When they broke into the flat, they went into a full gallop.
From a quarter-mile away, Connolly could tell they were too late. Other than a final few horses leaving a corral, there were no figures moving about in the firelight.
There were, however, two figures tied to the corral. A man probably in his 30s and a woman who looked to be in her early to mid-20s. They were tied seven or eight feet apart, just out of reach of each other.
Connolly reined-in and left the saddle before his horse had fully stopped. He said, “You two check the man and the house.” He started toward the woman who was tied to the corral. He only hoped she was dead.
Stanton glanced at the man on the corral, then at the house. Flames were licking through the two windows on the north side and climbing toward the roof. He rode to the house and dismounted.
His right forearm over his face, he moved toward the open door on the east end. But just before he got to the low porch, the house creaked and settled. Flames blew through the window with a sprinkling of glass, then through the door. He took a stumbling step back, then turned away and walked back toward the corral, shaking his head.
Lawson had almost reached the man.
Connolly was almost to the woman.
Stanton yelled, “Lawson, wait!”
Lawson glanced back and raised one hand. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m okay.”
The man was scalped, his bloody forehead flickering in the firelight and almost touching the four arrows protruding from the center of his chest. It was as if they’d used him for target practice.
The woman’s head was lolled straight back, her entrails strung out down her dark dress to the dirt at her feet. As Connolly approached, she whimpered, “Please. I’m so sorry. Please kill me.”
Lawson stepped back from the man on the corral just as Stanton came up behind him and put one hand on his shoulder.
Stanton thought the woman had said something. He glanced to his right. Just as he said, “Corporal, is she—”an explosion went off.
Corporal Connolly looked at the woman for an extra second or two, then turned away. Disgust and anger dripping from his voice, he said, “She’s fine now. Let’s go find some damn shovels.”
After they buried the man and the woman, they mounted up. Corporal Connolly said, “We had a couple more guys, I’d say we should lay out our bedrolls and try to track Four Crows and his band of damn filthy cowards in the mornin’. But as it is, I think we’d better head north. Any discussion?”
Stanton said, “We might at least cut a trail. If we did—”
“If we did and if we followed it, chances are we’d ride straight into an ambush. We’d have no chance in the dark.” He gestured around. “I just wish we’d gotten here a half-hour or an hour earlier.” He paused. “But we didn’t. We just didn’t.”
He turned his horse north and touched its flanks with his spurs.
Chapter 10
Not quite an hour after Corporal Connolly and his team rode out of Amarillo to the west-northwest, Corporal Edwards and Rangers McFadden, Mendoza, and Stilson rode casually to the due east. After darkness fell, they turned their horses and rode southwest, as the captain had said to do.
Edwards didn’t like it, and he’d wanted to discuss it further with the captain, but Jim Connolly had waived him off with a look. Later maybe, but not now. After three days of studying the map, the captain wasn’t in the mood for argument.
Edwards thought they should go southeast, maybe, but not southwest. There was nothing due south of Amarillo but Palo Duro Canyon. No settlements, and no farms to speak of. Not many targets, if any, for the Comanches or comancheros, so not many opportunities for his Rangers.
Like Corporal Connolly’s team, Corporal Edwards’ team also slowed their horses to a canter as they turned back to the southwest. But unlike Corporal Connolly, Corporal Edwards had no particular destination in mind. He also saw no reason to rush. They might as well be out for a leisurely ride. He figured when they neared the canyon, they’d maybe stop by Canyon and “be seen” by the citizens, as the captain put it. If there was time.
If there wasn’t, they’d turn north again and enter Amarillo from the south. And the spies be damned. What could they tell Four Crows or Messina or whoever they were talking to other than the Rangers left one way and came in another?
Still, the whole thing was annoying. They might’ve had happier hunting if they’d continued to the east or northeast. He’d talk with the captain about that after they got back. There was a whole triangle of territory south of Amarillo that they ought to just flat ignore.
Now, sending one team southwest to bisect the area between Hereford and Canyon was a good idea. At least maybe. That’s where Jim Connolly and his bunch were tonight. He, not Edwards, should have had the extra man.
But the other team should operate up in the northwest. Or north. Or northeast. Or if in the south, make it a longer patrol and head southeast and then curve back north. If you want to catch Comanches or comancheros, you have to go where the targets are, and there simply were no targets in the triangle due south of Amarillo.
But for now it was important for them to do as they were told and be where they were supposed to be. Besides, you never knew what you might come across out here. He laughed even as the thought crossed his mind. The only thing they’d find out here was miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles.
As they rode, he and his men curved back more to the west than the southwest. And as the temperature dropped and the eastern sky began to lighten, he skipped over the notion of riding into Canyon and turned his team back to the north.
The plains were all but trackless, and they hadn’t cut any well-used trails for several hours. The last one was the near-road that led east-southeast to Childress, and they’d crossed that several hours ago. He guided his men a little more northwest. Despite the lack of almost anything south of Amarillo, there was a track leading from town to Palo Duro Canyon. There would be less chance of a horse stepping in a prairie-dog hole and coming up lame.
Just as the sun was about to peek over the eastern horizon, they cut the trail. It was little more than two wheel tracks leading almost due north. With any luck, they’d be back in the Inn about the time Manuel started serving breakfast.
Up ahead, maybe a quarter-mile distant, a lone wagon came into view. It looked like a buckboard.
About the time Edwards spotted it, the driver stopped the wagon. For a moment, he just looked at the men coming up the trail. Then he shook the reins and continued south.
*
When the Rangers approached the wagon, Corporal Edwards remained in the center of the trail and put up one hand. Mac and Mendoza moved off the trail to the left, and Stilson moved off to the right. They all waited.
The wagon was a buckboard with low sides and a heavy off-white tarp stretched over it. It continued to move forward, but more slowly.
The driver was an older Mexican man. The white two or three days of stubble on his face stood out in contrast to his dark, wrinkled skin. He eyed the Rangers and seemed to notice the badges on their chests.
Once he realized the mounted men wanted him to stop, he edged into the U they’d formed and reined-in the horse. Then he reached up with one thickly veined hand and tipped his straw hat back slightly. It had a rip along the front of the brim, having definitely seen better days. When the sun was higher in the sky, probably he’d have a thin crescent on his chest. His brow wrinkled as he looked at Corporal Edwards. “Sí, señor?”
Edwards said, “Tu habla inglés?”
The man put the thumb and forefinger of his right hand close together as if about to pinch something. “Oh sí, pero muy poco.”
Edwards nodded, then gestured toward the trail behind him. “Where you headed?”
The old man shrugged. “Just south. Someday to Sabinas in Mexico.”
“Sabinas? Well, that’s good. Goin’ home?”
“Si, señor, Sabinas is my home.”
Edwards nodded, then glanced at Mac and gestured toward the wagon. “Take a look.” Then he looked at the man again. “So you ain’t drivin’ for Paco Messina?”
The old man frowned again. “Messina? I don’t know no one by that name.”
Edwards grinned. “You don’t, huh? Never heard of him?”
“No, señor, no Messina. Is he a bad man?”
Edwards laughed. “He thinks he is. You wouldn’t want your daughter to date him.”
The old man frowned. “My daughter, she is in Sabinas with her husband.”
Mac looked up. “The back two-thirds or so is empty. The front just baskets of clothes and food and other stuff like that. Looked like all his possessions.”
Corporal Edwards nodded, then looked at the old man again as Mac mounted his horse. He lifted his left hand to his breast and framed his badge with his thumb and forefinger. “We’re Rangers. Comprende Texas Rangers?”
“Oh sí, sí, comprendo.”
“When you see Messina, you tell him we’re gonna nail him.”
“I would tell him for you, pero I don’t know him.”
Edwards laughed and shuffled his horse off the trail to the right. “All right.” He gestured toward the trail again with his left hand. “Go ahead.”
“Gracias, Ranger.”
Chapter 11
Wes was tireder than he thought.
He was on the point of the ambush, so closer to the river and with a more direct line of attack. He would be the first to engage Sandoval if the man came across. But the night was too dark to see much anyway, so he’d picked a spot in a stand of salt cedars. He couldn’t actually see the river, but nobody in the river could see him either. Instead of watching, he listened for the sounds of splashing hooves. When they came, he would move, look, maybe yell a challenge, and then engage if he believed the rider was Sandoval and his men.
For a few hours he sat cross-legged, not moving—the first rule of ambush—his Colt cocked and lying in his lap. He was facing the mesquite in which he thought Longstreet was hidden. He made a game of trying to spot the man, or part of him. An elbow, maybe, or the side of a hand. He was happily unsuccessful. Quincy had hidden himself well.
And he listened. And waited.
The whole thing was a soft symphony. The immense, draping quiet of the darkness itself was accompanied by cricket songs and interrupted only occasionally by the barrup of a bullfrog.
And if the constant hushing of the river as it brushed past the reeds along the lower bank were the general rhythm of a prelude, the light breeze playing through the branches above his head was separate. Different. Maybe a gentle lullaby delivered to a fortunate infant by a mother in a rocking chair.
If he listened just right, the crickets even provided the creaking from the rocker.
Now and then, when a different sound came to him from the river, he started and gripped his revolver a little more tightly.
Each time, he visualized the sound and his grip relaxed. It was still only part of the natural rhythm. Only a place where the current, maybe diverted momentarily by a fallen log upstream somewhere, rushed over a protruding rock. Or maybe past a branch that had dipped too low from a live oak or a cottonwood.
But he listened a little more closely for what might have diverted the current. It might have been a rider crossing the river.
But it never was.
He relaxed, went back to listening to the never-ending prelude and the gentle lullaby.
And over time, he caught himself trying to sleep twice. Each time he jerked his chin up from his chest suddenly, gripping his Colt.
And each time he listened carefully for a tense moment, calmed himself, and relaxed.
The third time he realized he’d been asleep. Not moving toward it, but actually asleep.
He grinned, glanced all around, then shook his head and quietly got to his feet.
He gently lowered the hammer on his Colt and slipped it back into his right holster. If someone came across, the click of the hammer would be hidden in the challenge he would yell anyway.
