“We better get up with the wagons,” Yancey advised, spurring his mount forward past Cannon.
Cato got his own horse moving and Cannon wheeled, racing after them. The trio swarmed out onto the plain in the boiling dust left by the wild passage of the wagons. The bandits were not shooting at the wagons, not bothering about the drivers, but trying to bring down the galloping horses of the teams. Even as Yancey threw his Winchester to his shoulder and triggered, the lead horse on the second wagon faltered and finally went down. The rest of the team piled into it and the Mexican on the driving seat abandoned the reins and leaped for his life as the wagon crashed into the threshing horses. It tilted and seemed as if it would fall onto its side but somehow flopped back onto an even keel. The Mexican picked himself up out of the dirt and ran to crouch beneath the dust-shrouded vehicle, crossing himself rapidly.
Yancey’s lead missed his target but his second shot knocked a bandit clear out of the saddle and the man fell right in the path of one of his galloping comrades’ horses.
Cato and Cannon were shooting fast as they rode too, and the bandits turned their attention to the trio, figuring they could catch up with the other two racing wagons later. There was nowhere for the lumbering vehicles to go: they could be seen for miles out on the featureless plains that stretched ahead.
Cannon and Cato veered their mounts up the left and sought the cover of some splintered volcanic rock, bandits’ lead whining around them. Yancey was caught out in the open and there were three bandits between him and the only possible cover, one big marble-like boulder with a wide crack down the middle. If he tried to make a run back for the rocks where Cato and Cannon were now dismounting, he would be blown out of the saddle before he had ridden ten yards. Straight ahead was nothing but the open plain and, off to his other side, were more bandits ...
Yancey didn’t hesitate. Long ago he had ridden with the buffalo hunters up on the Red River, and when they found themselves trapped in a similar situation, as they often did with the marauding Comanche in that area, they simply quit leather, hauled their horse down onto its side and used the animal as a shelter, hoping that companions nearby would hear the sounds of a battle and come before any real damage was done.
So Yancey jumped to the ground, grabbed his horse’s reins up short and threw himself backwards, literally pulling the well-trained animal down onto its side. He got his legs out of the way and slithered around behind the animal’s back, bringing the barrel of the Winchester down and across his saddle.
Yancey levered and fired, bringing down a horse and shooting its rider as the man reared to his feet and made a lunge for the stirrup of a comrade galloping past. He shifted aim slightly and his lead smashed into the thigh of the rider, bringing a scream to the man’s lips. He dropped his rifle and, clawing at his blood-streaming leg, veered away. Then Yancey’s heart sank. More bandits were coming out of the canyons back there ... the Cat’s reserves.
There was no more time for thinking. It was a matter of bringing up the rifle, firing, levering, firing again, and when the hammer clicked on an empty breech, ducking low behind the quivering horse, thumbing in fresh shells.
Yancey’s Winchester was hot in his hands and still the bandits were sweeping in. He wasn’t sure if his horse had been hit or not, but it was lying still now, giving an occasional brief whinny that might have been a whimper of pain.
Then, sweeping in across the plain, looming large out of the dust and smoke, came a band of men mounted on fleet-footed horses, yelling wildly, and Yancey figured that this was the end. Another twenty or so bandits! The numbers were just too great. They couldn’t hope to hold out.
But it was the bandits who were fleeing now. He blinked his smoke-reddened eyes in disbelief. He wasn’t seeing things. The bandits were on the run, in complete rout, pursued by the new arrivals. And he realized that these weren’t bandit reinforcements at all. They were a troop of government soldiers, led by a saber-wielding officer.
The officer introduced himself as Capitan Raul Garcia, of the 21st Cordoba Province Rifles, Mounted. He was a lean and handsome young Mexican but there was cruelty in his dark eyes. He proved this when he allowed his men to torture and hack the bandidos to death after capturing them. While the unfortunate men shrieked in agony, Garcia perched on a rock and polished the dust from his half-boots. He flicked the last speck away and looked up at the three norteamericanos.
“This is dangerous country for travelers, señors,” he said in his accented English. “Especially ones who carry valuable freight in their wagons ... Ah, I see my men returning with your two wagons that fled out onto the plain. And I think it is about time for me to examine the other one, eh?”
He nodded at the wagon with the downed horse in its team and where the body of its driver lay sprawled by the rear wheel. Cannon stiffened and glanced swiftly at Yancey and Cato. He stood up, dusting off his hands.
“Uh, captain—could I have a word?”
“Certainly, señor,” Garcia said and he and Cannon walked slowly away from the others, the giant gun-runner talking earnestly.
“Gonna bribe him into lettin’ the guns go through,” opined Cato quietly,
Yancey nodded in agreement. “Let’s hope it works ... We’re in a lot of trouble if it doesn’t.”
They watched carefully, aware that some of Garcia’s men were standing around close by, apparently idly watching their companions kill off the last of the bandits, but Yancey noticed they held their bolt-action Snider rifles at the ready, with, the ‘safety’ off.
Garcia stopped abruptly and stared at Cannon, having to tilt his head back to look at the big man’s face. Garcia’s expression told Yancey nothing but the way his left hand down at his side kept closing into a fist and then opening again, with all fingers stiffened and splayed wide, warned him that Garcia was angry at whatever it was Cannon had said to him. The officer took Cannon’s elbow and urged him towards the stationary wagon. The other two were being brought back across the plain.
“Oh-oh,” Cato said quietly, tensing as Garcia opened the wagon’s canvas and climbed inside. Cannon stood at the tailgate, still talking earnestly.
Garcia came back in about two minutes, his face expressionless, Cannon striding along behind, chewing at his thick red lower lip. Garcia turned to his men and spoke rapidly in Spanish, too fast for Yancey to pick up the whole message, but he got enough to know that they were in trouble. He started to slide his hand towards his gun butt, but the sudden cold pressure of a Snider’s muzzle against the back of his neck made him freeze.
“Do not be foolish, señor,” Garcia warned easily. He raked his dark eyes over Yancey and Cato, finally turned his head slightly to look at Cannon. “Smuggling arms is a serious offence in Mexico in these troubled times, señors,” Garcia told them quietly. “Naturally, there is no doubt who the guns were meant for and El Halcon is not exactly beloved by my government. Anyone caught smuggling arms to this man must be considered as an enemy, of the state and a traitor. The penalty, of course, is death ...” He gestured abruptly to his soldiers. “Disarm them and tie them up. We will take them to Los Moros for trial.”
Cannon couldn’t hide his surprise, even in his struggles as two soldiers grabbed his arms. “Los Moros? But it is a bandido town!”
Garcia smiled faintly. “No longer, señor. We moved in a month ago, as soon as we realized its strategic closeness to Sonora ... Oh, yes, we, too, have our spies. We know what El Halcon’s plans are. In fact, we knew to expect you ...” He smiled wider, looking boyish all of a sudden. “Forgive me for playing with you, but I knew all along who you were.”
He laughed and Yancey winced as the rawhide bonds bit deeply into the flesh of his wrists.
Ten – Blaze of Glory
The town of Los Moros was pretty much as Yancey and Cato remembered it: mean, dirty, built of adobe, with rutted and narrow streets. But now these streets were lined with soldiers, lounging about, talking and laughing with the señoritas, guns always within reach. A
nd there was another change in the town: one of the cantinas had been turned into a jail.
Yancey and Cato had been thrown into one of the ‘cells’ upon their arrival in Los Moros three days ago and had seen no one since except the untalkative guard who pushed indifferent food and rust-stained water through the hatch in the door at infrequent intervals. Both men still had their buckle-knives and had thought of trying to hack through the thick wooden bars set in the window frames but the wood was iron-hard and, while the edges of their knives were honed to razor sharpness, they were meant for fast slashing work and would not hold an edge for long. They would have been as dull as an ordinary table knife before cutting into the bars a quarter inch.
Neither man knew what had happened to Cannon. He had been whisked away with Garcia as soon as they had hit town, hustled away towards the old mission building which had long been used as a storehouse by the people of Los Moros but which had now been taken over by the 21st Cordoba Province Rifles.
“Sure like to know what in hell they’ve done with Cannon,” Cato said.
“Well, we haven’t heard anything that sounded like a firing-squad, so my guess is he’s still alive. Maybe cut up some, but still alive.”
Cato looked at Yancey sharply. “Yeah, been wonderin’ why we haven’t had our fingernails ripped loose or a hot iron shoved between our teeth long before this.”
“Guess they’re saving it for after our trial ... a little entertainment before shooting us.”
“Well, no one said anything about shootin’ us,” Cato pointed out. “Garcia only said the penalty was death. Nothin’ was said about how we were gonna die and I keep hearin’ the screams of them bandidos.”
“Cheerful little cuss, ain’t you?” Yancey said, stretching out into a more comfortable position on the straw that had been thrown on the bare boards.
“Even if I was a big cuss, I’d be just as cheerful,” Cato growled. “Yancey, we’re walkin’ a tightrope here. We ain’t found out where El Halcon hangs out or what his exact plans are, and we can’t show our papers of commission to anyone down here because we ain’t supposed to have come across the Rio. While the Mex government wants the traffic in guns to the Hawk stopped, they don’t want us nosin’ around down here. All they want is to stop it on our side of the Rio and they’ll take care of their own down here. I figure that showin’ any of these fellers our credentials would only get us shot faster, as spies.”
“That’s about it, Johnny,” Yancey agreed easily. “Like you said, we’re walking a tightrope over a pit of fire. Any way we jump, we’re gonna get hurt.”
“So what in hell are we doin’ just sittin’ here?” the small man demanded. “We got nothin’ to lose by tryin’ to bust out!”
“Sit down, pard. We’ve already decided our knives wouldn’t help us get through those bars. But they might help us when they come to take us to the trial. Those blades are sure sharp enough to cut up a man mighty good.”
Cato nodded and slowly sat down again, seeing the wisdom of this. Outside the room, they could turn on their guards, stab and slash, and make a run for it. There were horses lining almost every street in town ...
But, when the time came for them to move, it didn’t work out that way.
The door was slammed open violently and four soldiers came into the room, all armed. Two held bayoneted rifles and the bayonets were pressed threateningly against Cato’s and Yancey’s throats, forcing them back against the wall. They were told to hold their hands out in front of them, wrists together. When they did so, the other two men produced handcuffs and snapped them on swiftly. Then chains were clipped to the cuffs and they were dragged bodily outside and down the stairs, pulled off their feet roughly and continually kept off balance when they reached the street. The two men who held the lengths of chain mounted waiting horses, looped the chains over their massive saddle horns, and spurred their horses forward. The chains snapped taut and Yancey and Cato were yanked to their knees. They scrabbled to get their feet under them swiftly before they were hauled headlong and just managed to jerk upright and start forward in a wild staggering run after the mounted soldiers. Mexicans lining the streets laughed at them, pelted them with rotten vegetables, empty bottles and stones, and then they were clear of the town and stumbling and falling and leaping over the rough country beyond.
“Where the ... hell are ... they ... takin’ us ... now?” panted Cato.
“Could be ... short-cutting ... the trial!” Yancey gasped.
“Ch—cheerful ... big cuss ... ain’t ... you?”
Yancey grinned despite himself. It took a hell of a lot to put down Cato’s sense of humor ...
They fell constantly but the soldiers had slowed down now and they were able to bounce upright again each time, but it was a hard job keeping up this pace and there was no sign of their destination.
“One thing ...” Cato gasped, lurching in against the staggering Yancey and floundering away again to stumble and somersault back to his feet. “Always wondered if ... a man could ... trot alongside a ... horse for a couple of … hours if he had to ... Now I know ... it can’t be done!”
Yancey started to laugh but fell and the dust filled his mouth, causing him to cough and choke as he tried to get his feet under him again. He couldn’t make it and was dragged along face down through the stunted brush, body bouncing over stones and deadfalls, arms feeling like they were being torn from their sockets. Cato yelled angrily at the riders to slow down but the man who had his chain merely bared his teeth and yanked hard so that Cato, too, sprawled headlong and both men were dragged this way for over two hundred yards.
“Somethin’ to look forward to then!” Cato muttered. About twenty minutes later, they topped a low rise and below them, maybe a mile off, was a big white adobe hacienda with all the outbuildings of a large rancho. The soldiers paused, pointed, exchanged a few words, then started their mounts down the slope, their two prisoners staggering along behind.
In the ranch yard, the long chains were removed but the handcuffs were kept on as the soldiers urged them across the porch and into the cool interior of the big white building. They were dragged down a passage to a heavy wooden door, studded with iron nails and carrying ornate hinges. One soldier rapped hard three times with his fist, paused and rapped twice more. There was a rattle of a bolt and the door creaked open.
Captain Raul Garcia stood there with a glass of brandy in one hand. He didn’t even glance at the soldiers, dismissing them with a wave of his free hand. He smiled at the sweating, disheveled Americans. “Ah, amigos. We are glad to see you. Please come in.”
He stood to one side and Yancey and Cato stepped into a big room with a large stone fireplace and mounted animal heads around the walls. Sprawled in a chair with a glass of brandy, and smiling widely, was the giant, Cannon. The small man standing by the fireplace in the ornate shirt and embroidered trousers, looking as if he was about to sneeze, could only be El Halcon himself ...
Cannon gestured for Yancey and Cato to come closer.
“Don’t worry none, fellers. We’re all friends here. Come on in and meet the Hawk.”
The cuffs were off now and loose-sleeved white silk shirts had been found to replace Yancey’s and Cato’s rags. They stood near the fireplace, drinks in their hand, watching El Halcon and being watched in return by the small rebel leader. He was just as Cannon had described him, except that the big man had not mentioned the eyes or the cruelly twisted mouth. Here was a man who would enjoy inflicting pain.
The Hawk carried no visible weapons but there was a wide sash around his slim waist that could have concealed both gun and knife. He had not spoken since they had entered, though Cannon had introduced the agents to him.
“Guess you’re kind of confused by all this,” Cannon was saying now. “Well, so’m I to some extent ...” He gestured at Garcia. “The captain here had me fooled. I thought it was an adobe wall and a blindfold for sure when he took me off, but he set me right on that score pronto. Gents, Captain Raul
Garcia is El Halcon’s distributin’ agent.”
He paused for effect and it wasn’t wasted, for both Yancey and Cato were surprised by his words and wanted to hear the rest of it.
Cannon chuckled as he continued. “Simplest and neatest thing I ever heard ... Captain Garcia confiscates the guns as contraband and his government’s happy, because he’s out doin’ his job of cracking down on gun-smugglers ... But when he moves them guns to a ‘safe’ place, there’s an accident, you see. Leastways, it reads that way on his report. The guns are lost in a deep river or the wagons go over a gorge. There’s maybe a little fuss but not too much, ’cause the main thing is his bosses think the rebels can’t get their hands on the guns anyway and that’s all they’re worried about. You savvy the deal, Banner?”
“Sure. He takes the guns to El Halcon or wherever the Hawk has told him to send ’em ... Yeah, neat set-up. But it couldn’t work too often. His superiors would soon get suspicious of the ‘accidents’.”
“Beauty of it is, it only has to work this once,” Cannon explained, “because this is the last shipment. It was just a way of gettin’ round the government pressure to stop contraband comin’ in. El Halcon just told Garcia which route we were usin’ and he waited for us to show and put on his big act. Now everyone’s happy, eh?”
Cato flicked his gaze to El Halcon. “I don’t see him smilin’.”
Cannon and Garcia looked a little alarmed at Cato’s light remark but the Hawk’s face remained impassive.
“Well, I reckon now it’s all straightened out,” Yancey said suddenly, breaking the silence, “Colt and me’d be a sight happier if we had our side arms back.”
“Hallelujah!” Cato said.
Cannon looked swiftly at Garcia who smiled apologetically. “I am sorry, amigos,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, “but that is not possible. Your weapons are back in Los Moros. But you do not need them here. Your job is to show our men how to use their new guns. Your own would be unnecessary.”
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