by Steven Gould
The Rangers were watching the two teenage daughters. The oldest daughter was walking with the studied casualness of a young woman well aware of her beauty. The younger daughter, walking behind her sister, was exaggerating her sister’s walk, and rolling her hips, and getting a laugh from several of the troops.
As the family passed the head of the double-column of horses, Kimble increased his pace again, pulling out in front and taking the turnoff for the livery stable.
“Thought you were going to be overnight?” the livery man said.
“Was.” Kimble paid him for the afternoon and bought some extra feed for the road. “Got everything done quicker than I thought.” As he was saddling Suze the same family arrived, redeeming a team of horses, a wagon, and two saddle horses.
While the father and son helped the livery man harness the horses, the younger daughter came over to look at Suze. “Nice horse—I love her neat little feet. Huh. Why do you put the slipknot on the cinch?”
“’Cause otherwise it takes ten minutes of hard work to get it off. She has a rib cage like an accordion, I swear.” Kimble turned the horse and took her to the watering trough.
The girl looked at the now-exposed brand. “Bar-Halo. That’s the Kenneys’ Ranch. Did you buy this horse from the Kenneys?”
Kimble had to look up to meet the young woman’s eyes. “Didn’t buy. Mr. Kenney loaned me Suze. I don’t recognize you from around Perro Frio.”
“Oh, we don’t live that far south, but our family and theirs go way back. Daddy and Matt Kenney were roommates at Baylor University.” She turned and called out. “Daddy, this boy knows the Kenneys.” She turned back. “What’s your name?”
He thought about the recent inquiries. “Kim Monroe,” he said, using Ruth’s last name like he did at the village school.
“I’m Sarah Costillo.” She pointed. “Those are my parents; my sister, Parker; and my brother, Paco. Paco’s the oldest. I’m the baby.”
“Uh, fifteen?” Kimble guessed.
“Next month,” she said.
Kimble nodded. “Thirteen, myself.”
“You came all the way from Perro Frio by yourself?”
He shrugged. “My guardian is sick.” He patted the saddle bags. “Needed to get some medicine from the TMS pharmacy.”
Her mouth opened and then closed and she frowned.
He answered the unasked question, half-lying. “My parents died when I was small.”
“Oh.” She turned and looked at her own parents, her face thoughtful.
Mr. Costillo, the harnessing done, walked over and stuck out his hand. Sarah did the introductions.
“Seems to me, Matt told me about some stolen horses back in June and a neighbor boy who got them back. You wouldn’t be him, would you?”
Kimble blushed. “I’m the neighbor, but I didn’t do anything, really. The man who stole them knocked himself out and broke his arm chasing me down the riverbank. The posse caught up because of that.”
“Traveling alone? You’re starting out awful late, aren’t you?”
Kimble explained about the medicine.
“Ride with us. Our ranch is only six hours down the trail. You can spend the night and get an early start.”
Kimble started to refuse, but then he thought about the troop of Rangers. If he was traveling with the Costillos he was less likely to draw the Rangers’ attention.
“Well, thanks. That would be nice.”
Mr. Costillo nodded firmly. “Good. It’s safer that way what with all these attacks.”
“Attacks? There’s been attacks? What kind of attacks?”
“Ha. I thought you probably didn’t know about them, heading out alone like this. Ladrones. A group of eight or so men, the reports say. They’ve been robbing travelers west and south of the capital and they’ve hit a few farms and ranches, too. I brought word to the Rangers about a raid on one of our neighbors—they lost some horses and one of their hired hands was clubbed down.”
Sarah added, “Broken collarbone.”
“He was lucky,” said Mr. Costillo. “Some of the travelers have been killed. You hadn’t heard about this?”
“Not a word,” said Kimble. “I’m sure Mr. Kenney would’ve warned me if he’d known. I seriously doubt that Sensei—my guardian—would’ve let me come.”
“Well, it’s all been in the last ten days. They’ll hear about it soon enough.”
“Eight men? Are you sure that you will be safe to travel?”
Mr. Costillo laughed. “We caravanned up with two other families, but we’re going back with an entire troop of Rangers.”
So, thought Kimble. That’s a big fail on the avoiding-the-Rangers thing.
* * *
THE Costillos’ saddle horses belonged to the older daughter, Parker, and the son, Paco. Kimble expected Mr. Costillo to take up the reins of the wagon, but it was Sarah who drove it down to the main road. Mr. Costillo sat in the back bench seat with a disposable four-barrel cardboard rifle. His wife took up some wool and a pair of wooden knitting needles, but Kimble noted a composite crossbow with a quiver full of ceramic-headed fiberglass bolts at her feet.
The troop, fully mounted, was waiting at the main road. As soon as Mr. Costillo’s party appeared, the commanding officer issued a short command and pairs of scouts headed forward at the gallop, reducing the troop by half. The remainder split into two groups, one before the family and one after.
Kimble heard Parker say, “Great. Dust for supper.”
Her brother Paco smiled and said, “A-gaaaaaain?”
Underway, the commanding officer looped back to the wagon and rode alongside. “Good afternoon, Rosalita, Sarah, John.” He gestured at Mr. Costillo’s four-barrel. “What you packing, John? Slugs?”
“Bird gravel. Not terribly accurate but at twenty feet it makes an impression.”
“Well, I hope you won’t need it. If we do spot them, though, I might borrow your wagon and try a decoy with a few of my men.”
Kimble, riding behind the wagon with Paco and Parker, saw the CO gesture back toward him. “You’ve got a new recruit, I see.”
Mr. Costillo raised his voice, “Come on up here, Kim.”
Kimble took a deep breath and touched his heels to Suze’s side. He hoped the CO wasn’t up on all the territorial circulars.
“This is Captain Bentham, Kim. Kim Monroe here lives down in Perro Frio. He’s a neighbor of Matt Kenney. You remember Matt, right?”
“Of course.” Bentham was of medium height and build. He had a beaky nose and prominent bushy eyebrows. “Though what I really remember is Patricia Kenney’s biscuits and apple butter.”
Mr. Costillo laughed. “I can understand that. Kim rode up to the capital to get some medicine. He didn’t know about the bandits.”
Kim nodded agreement. He didn’t like the way Bentham was studying him. The man was smiling slightly but it didn’t touch his eyes, still and unblinking.
Bentham responded to Mr. Costillo. “Yeah, well the news probably passed him going the other way.”
Kimble hadn’t thought about that. “They’ll be worried.”
“Concerned, certainly,” Mr. Costillo said.
The adults kept talking and Kimble let Suze drop back. Bentham gave him one more intent look before turning back to Mr. and Mrs. Costillo.
Back beside Paco and Parker, Kimble asked, “You know the captain long?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Paco. “Ten years, at least. I was eight when he used to stay with us as a new lieutenant. He was in the ethnographic survey then, counting heads and keeping people away from major infestations.”
An hour later, as the sun neared the horizon, a single rider appeared, one of the scouts previously dispatched. Kimble didn’t hear the scout’s report to Captain Bentham but the CO promptly halted the column and rode back to the wagon. “Looks like we may have spotted them. There’s a bunch camped overlooking the road in the next valley—seems the right number of horses. My boys are keeping an eye on them, hidden, b
ut if they are the ones, we can ride the troops around to the east and close unobserved by coming up an arroyo. If you don’t mind, I’d like to try to decoy them with your wagon.”
“What about the girls?” asked Mr. Costillo.
“All of you would ride with me,” said Captain Bentham. “Sergeant Pouri and two of his squad will take the wagon. They’re gonna change into mufti. Sarah, Rosalita, and you would ride their horses.”
“That’s good for Sarah and Rosalita but it is my wagon. I’ll drive it.”
Kimble saw Mrs. Costillo turn her head sharply. So did Captain Bentham, who said, “Sorry, John. Against regs. If you’d rather I didn’t use your wagon, I can understand.”
Grumbling, Mr. Costillo gave in and Kimble saw Mrs. Costillo exhale deeply.
The three Rangers assigned as decoys changed clothes behind a screen of their fellows’ horses. They concealed their ceramic gyro rifles, Kevlar helmets, and their billies on the floor beneath a blanket.
“Wearing your vests?” Captain Bentham asked.
The sergeant banged his knuckles against his chest and the hard rapping sound was audible across the road.
“Right, then. Give us a quarter-hour before you start out. I can get there quicker, but I want to take it slow and keep the dust down.”
“Yes, sir. Starting now?”
Bentham looked over to where a soldier was adjusting the Kevlar stirrups on one of the Ranger saddles to fit Sarah Costillo’s shorter legs. “Ready?”
The Ranger held up his thumb and went to his own horse.
Bentham nodded. “Starting now.”
The sergeant said, “Ramirez,” and the soldier sitting behind him on the wagon began counting quietly.
The mounted troop with the Costillos and Kimble swung off the road and made for a low spot in the next ridge, riding briskly. Once there, they slowed to a walk, crested the ridge, and dropped quickly into a sandy wash. Kimble looked, as they came through the notch in the ridge, but the hillside bulged out and blocked the road up the valley from view.
The wash led into the bottom of the valley where a creek wandered down out of the Jemez on its way to the Puerco. Bentham gave orders to water the horses and then don vests and helmets. A few minutes later they rode on down the wash. At one bend, the advance scout suddenly turned his horse back and held up his hand. Bentham and the scout dismounted and peered around corner of the wash’s edge.
Bentham remounted and came back to the main body. “The road fords the creek around the next bend but we’d also be visible from the hillside where our suspects are camped. Patowski, get up there and let me know what’s happening.” He pointed and one of the smaller Rangers slung his rifle over his back, dismounted, and was boosted by two squad mates up the steep side of the wash and into a waist-high clump of greasewood. Kimble watched in fascination as the Ranger used his ceramic knife to cut three branches of the brush and tucked them through loops in his Kevlar vest so they stuck up around his head.
“I can see the wagon just coming over the ridge. Don’t see any sign of our scouts. I see the smoke from the suspects’ camp, but they’re hidden by some cedars.”
Bentham moved his horse over to the Costillos and Kimble. “When we go, I’ll leave Patowski here. Please don’t move out until you get an all clear from me or one of my men.”
Patowski called down softly. “Something’s happening, sir. The wagon is well down the hill and I saw motion through the trees. Thought I saw a saddle being slung over a horse.”
Bentham turned to his troops. “D Squad draw your rifles—fire only if cleared by Sergeant Fernandez. All other squads—truncheons or staffs. Patowski, when we go, you stay put.”
“They’re on the move, sir,” said Patowski. “Looks like they’re going to intercept before the wagon reaches the ford.”
“Good. The scouts should block them by the ridge. If they head back the way they came, the hills will slow them down. Let me know when they’re within a hundred yards of the wagon.”
The sergeants dressed up the two columns of troopers and Paco took the reins of Patowski’s mount.
“They’re closing on the wagon, sir.”
Captain Bentham chopped his hand forward and the column moved out at a walk, but by the time they’d reached the bend they were trotting. Dust drifted back up the wash and Kimble held his bandanna over mouth and nose as an impromptu filter.
Patowski called out. “Ha! They’ve started to run but the scouts cut them off. Oh, shit! Dammit!” Patowski jumped to his feet. “Three of them broke for the ford. Gotta cut them off.” Patowski disappeared, running. Almost immediately there was the shrill shriek of a gyro rocket being fired. Then another and the sickening sound of a horse screaming.
Kimble edged Suze back toward the steep wall of the wash. If the bandits couldn’t cross the ford, there was another route they could take. “Maybe we should mo—” One horse and then another sprinted around the bend and pounded up the wash toward them. The riders weren’t Rangers.
Mr. Costillo started to raise his four-barrel but his attention was split between the approaching horses and his family. “Get back!” he yelled, gesturing to the side of the wash. He spurred his horse out into the middle of the wash and raised the gun.
No. Let them by! thought Kimble. What are you thinking! Armored Rangers were obviously the appropriate tool, not someone without armor whose family was present.
“Hold up there!” Mr. Costillo yelled hoarsely.
Maybe Mr. Costillo thought they’d stop or at least turn and go back the way they’d come. He probably didn’t expect them to fire first.
The lead rider lifted a multi-barrel disposable, like Mr. Costillo’s, but when he fired each barrel in quick succession it was clear from the sharp reports that he was firing rifled ceramic slugs. Kimble ducked reflexively. From a galloping horse the bandit was more likely to hit someone by accident than deliberately, but Mr. Costillo was not so lucky. He clutched at his chest and tumbled backward over his horse’s rump.
There were simultaneous cries of “Daddy!” and “John” from Mr. Costillo’s daughters and wife. His son Paco spurred his horse so hard that it jumped out into the wash, colliding with the first rider’s horse. Both Paco, the rider, and horses went down in a tangle of flailing limbs.
Mr. Costillo, on the ground, thrust his gun out in the direction of the trailing rider and fired.
Gravel buzzed through the air and the second horse screamed and jumped sideways. The rider stayed on for the first convulsive jump but a second buck shook him free. He cleared the saddle cleanly and landed in a crouch. He took one step toward the horse and it bolted away, blood streaming from several gravel wounds.
Paco and the rider he’d collided with were wrestling on the ground. For a moment, both were in far more danger from flailing hooves, but then their mounts heaved themselves upright and danced away from the struggling pair.
Kimble hesitated, but at the sight of the red spreading across Mr. Costillo’s chest, he thumped Suze’s side and steered her past the struggling pair to where Mr. Costillo lay and jumped down, dropping the reins on the ground.
He ripped Mr. Costillo’s shirt open, sending buttons flying. He was expecting a hideous wound, the heart or lungs, but the slug had gone in high, just above the collarbone, and torn into the trapezius. The ceramic projectile was actually sticking half out of the back of Mr. Costillo’s shoulder.
Mrs. Costillo said sharply, “Parker, go get the Ranger’s medic!” Kimble heard pounding hooves and looked up and to see the eldest daughter’s horse flying down the arroyo, swinging wide around the second bandit. Mrs. Costillo’s knees thumped to the ground beside Kimble and she had a clean handkerchief in her hand, already folding it into a pad. Sarah was right behind her, doing exactly the same. “Pull that on through,” Mrs. Costillo said, jerking her chin at the projectile. She was holding Mr. Costillo’s shoulder up slightly, keeping it out of the dirt, while she pressed the makeshift bandage against the entry wound in front.
“Right,” Kimble said. He felt faint, and a bit nauseated at the blood. He took a deep breath, and tried to grip the projectile, but his hands slipped off the bloody point. “Gimme,” he said to Sarah, taking the handkerchief out of her hand. The slug popped right out once he used the cloth to grip it, but blood, staunched on the front, poured freely out the rear wound. He wadded the cloth up and pressed it against the back. Mrs. Costillo slipped her hand over his.
“Help Paco,” she said, jerking her head back where the two men had been struggling.
By the time Kimble stood and turned, Paco had his opponent facedown in the sand and was using a rawhide piggin’ string to secure the man’s hands behind his back.
“You rope calves?” Kimble asked.
Paco grinned, an odd contrast, a flash of white teeth against bloody lips. He started to answer when Mrs. Costillo screamed.
It was the second rider, the one who’d been bucked off by his horse. He’d come up and grabbed Sarah from behind. He pulled her back toward the center of the wash, a ceramic knife held to her throat.
“Get me a horse!” he yelled. “Right now or I swear to God I’ll cut her throat!” The man’s eyes were wide, showing lots of white. He kept glancing back toward the ford. “I mean it!” he shouted, giving Sarah a shake that startled a sob out of her.
The only horse still standing in the immediate vicinity was Suze, reins trailing. Paco’s, the first rider’s, Patowski’s, and the other two borrowed Ranger mounts were fifty yards down the arroyo. The bandit’s own gravel-stung horse had completely disappeared, having run back around the bend toward the ford.
Paco started to step forward, his face suddenly white, his hands balled into fists, but the bandit shouted, “You’ll kill ’er! Get back! I mean it.” He pointed the knife at Kimble. “You, kid. Get that horse and bring it here!” He brought the knife back to Sarah’s throat by way of emphasis.
Sarah was blinking rapidly and her jaw was clenched, but she actually seemed calmer than her captor. She was holding her head very still.