“Why don’t you just kill him and cut off his head? You can send it back to El Paso to claim the reward.”
“I’m not interested in the reward. I just want him locked up so he can’t cause any more trouble.”
A new voice said, “I absolutely agree, Creel.”
They all turned as Forbes Dyson came up to them. Dyson hooked his thumbs in his vest and looked down at the unconscious man.
“Did I hear you say that’s Jaime Mendoza?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Bo said. “He and his men tried to steal the ladies while we were out on the trail, on our way here. Rance Plummer and the cowboys from the SJ helped us fight them off. We figured Mendoza had given up.” Bo shook his head. “Obviously, he hadn’t. He just tried to take advantage of the confusion here in town, helped it explode into a riot by having Donnigan and McCreary killed, and then grabbed Miss Tolman and nearly carried her off.”
Nodding, Dyson said, “I just saw her in the hotel, where she was reunited with the others. Thank God she was unharmed. Thank God none of them were hurt.”
Scratch said, “Yeah, you got lucky, all right. A whole heap luckier than Donnigan and McCreary.”
Dyson sighed. “Yes, they didn’t deserve such a fate, especially after battling so hard against each other to win that competition. I suppose we’ll have to declare the next man in line to be the winner.”
“You’re worried about that now?” Bo asked sharply. “I figured after this commotion, you’d call the whole thing off.”
“Absolutely not!” Forbes Dyson snapped. “We’re going to continue, if for no other reason than to honor the lives of the two men who were killed.”
Bo wasn’t sure how much of an honor that was, but Dyson had his mind made up. Anyway, it wasn’t really any of his business, Bo told himself.
Dyson went on, “Jack, I want you to have this man locked up in that smokehouse down by the blacksmith shop. It’s a sturdy building with no windows and only one door.”
“You think the rest of his gang will come back and try to grab him?” Bouma asked.
“I don’t know, but we’ll keep a guard on the building. Are there any other prisoners?”
Bo and Scratch looked around. Scratch said, “I coldcocked a couple of ’em, but it looks like they must’ve come to and got out of town while the gettin’ was good.”
“I don’t see the one I knocked out, either,” Bo said.
“All right. We’ll keep Mendoza locked up until we figure out what to do with him.”
“I had a suggestion,” Bouma said.
“Yes, I overheard what you said,” Dyson replied. “We’re not cutting off anyone’s head, Jack. We’re not barbarians, after all. Just lock him up for now.”
Bouma shrugged and motioned for two of his men who had walked up to grab hold of Mendoza and take him down to the smokehouse. With that taken care of, Bo and Scratch headed for the hotel to check on the ladies.
* * *
Philip Armbruster sat on an old crate in an alley. His hands hung between his knees and he was breathing heavily, not so much because he needed the air, but more in reaction to everything that had happened over the past half hour.
He had seen men gunned down in cold blood right in front of him, men who had died without ever having any idea of the reason behind their deaths. He had been caught in a fear-crazed mob and almost trampled. He had been punched in the nose—by a woman!—and it still hurt, he thought as he lifted a hand and gingerly touched the injured member.
And he had fallen in love with that same woman after merely gazing into her eyes for a brief moment.
Such things happened in melodramatic novels, he supposed, but if anyone had asked him, he would have insisted that it was impossible in real life. He had firmly believed that . . . until now.
But even if it was true, what could he do about it? He was one man, and to be honest, not a very competent one at that. He couldn’t hope to kidnap the woman who had captivated him and get away with it.
For that matter, he didn’t want to kidnap her. He had always been a law-abiding man, until he started spending all his time with a group of Mexican bandits.
But if he was dressed in his real clothes again, if he was Philip Armbruster once more, and not some nameless peasant, would he stand a chance of winning her over? Had she gotten a good enough look at him that she would recognize him in his normal garb?
Armbruster felt his heart speed up with excitement as he pondered those questions. If he approached the young women as himself, no doubt those two self-appointed guardians would recognize him and tell the ladies that he had been with Mendoza’s gang.
But he had an answer for that. He could explain that the bandits had forced him to go along with them, that he would have been killed if he hadn’t done everything Mendoza told him to. He didn’t know for a fact that that was true, but there was certainly a good chance of it. Good enough to be a reasonable explanation.
The more Armbruster thought about it, the more he believed it would work. He was free now, and he had to take advantage of that. He stood up and moved toward the far end of the alley, where his mule was tied. His clothes were in the saddlebags slung over the beast’s back.
He hadn’t reached the alley mouth when a man stepped into it. The figure, topped by a broad-brimmed, steeple-crowned sombrero, was familiar.
“Lupe,” Armbruster said.
Guadalupe Sanchez, who had replaced Ernesto Reyes as Mendoza’s second-in-command after Ernesto was killed, gave Armbruster a suspicious glower and said, “Were you running out on us, gringo?”
“What? Running . . . No! Certainly not. Where’s Jaime?” Armbruster said, even though he knew perfectly well that Mendoza had been knocked unconscious and captured. Watching from a hiding place in the alley, he had seen men dragging Mendoza off toward the other end of the settlement a few minutes earlier. What they planned to do with him, Armbruster had no idea, but he was sure it wasn’t anything pleasant.
“The gringos have him,” Sanchez said, “but not for long.” He draped a long apelike arm over Armbruster’s shoulders. “Come with us now. Jaime trusted you, and because of that, the rest of us do, as well. Besides, you know the other gringos better than any of us do, so we will need your help rescuing him.”
“R-rescuing him?”
“Of course! You did not think we were going to leave him here, did you? We will free him, and then we will have our vengeance on this town!”
So just like that, all the plans Armbruster had been forming evaporated. The bandits, for some unfathomable reason, still regarded him as one of them. And if he tried to back out of that alliance now . . . there was a good chance they would just go ahead and kill him.
Because he knew that, Armbruster summoned up a weak smile and said, “Of course, Lupe. Let’s go. We have work to do.”
CHAPTER 34
In the hotel, Rose threw her arms around Bo’s neck, while Beth embraced Scratch. The young women had hurried to greet the Texans as soon as they came into the lobby.
“We thought you might have been killed!” Rose said as she clung to Bo.
Awkwardly, he patted her on the back as he said, “No, we’re fine. Banged up a mite, but that’s all.”
Rose was a tall, firmly packed sterling example of young womanhood, and despite his age, Bo was well aware of that as she filled his arms and pressed against him. He wasn’t so old that he couldn’t appreciate such things, and for that reason, he thought it best to put his hands on Rose’s shoulders and move her back a step.
If Scratch was thinking the same thing—and Bo knew he probably was—he wasn’t quite as quick to act upon it. But then he disengaged from Beth’s fervent embrace and said, “We just want to make sure none of you young ladies got hurt in that fracas.”
“None of us were hurt,” Cecilia said. “We owe that to the two of you.”
“I especially do,” Luella said. “I’d be a prisoner of those awful men right now if not for Bo and Scratch.”
She put a hand on Bo’s upper arm and squeezed. “And don’t try to use that just-doing-your-jobs excuse again.”
“What about those two men who were shot?” Jean asked. “The ones in the contest? Are they badly hurt?”
“I’m afraid both of those fellas are dead, Miss Jean,” Scratch told her as gently as he could.
Jean gasped and lifted a hand to her mouth. “That’s terrible,” she said. “I never dreamed that such a thing would . . . would take place right in front of us. I knew that the West isn’t as civilized as it is back home, but this is just unbelievable.”
“Does this sort of violent trouble happen all the time?” Rose asked.
“Hardly ever,” Scratch said.
“Not really,” Bo added. “Often enough that you need to keep your eyes open, though.”
Forbes Dyson came into the hotel and headed directly for the group. He said, “You ladies don’t have to worry about Mendoza anymore. He’s locked up securely where he can’t cause any more trouble.”
“What about the rest of his men?” Cecilia asked. “Doesn’t he have a large band of outlaws working with him?”
“He did,” Scratch said, “but we whittled ’em down a mite out there on the trail. Remember?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget,” Cecilia said.
“I daresay, none of us will,” Jean said.
“You’re calling off the other contests now, aren’t you, Mr. Dyson?” Cecilia asked.
Dyson shook his head and said, “We were just discussing this outside. The competitions will continue. It’s the only fair thing to do, since so many men invested their hard-earned money on entry fees.”
“Just give them their money back,” Cecilia suggested. “Surely, you have a record of who signed up for what.”
“Of course. And we’ll refund anyone’s money who decides not to participate.”
Bo said, “You could have quite a few of them asking for their dinero. After what happened out there to Donnigan and McCreary . . .”
He didn’t have to finish his comment. They all knew what he meant.
Dyson waved it off dismissively, though. He insisted, “Nothing like that is going to happen again. Without Mendoza to lead them, the few survivors of his gang don’t represent any real threat.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Scratch asked. “Some of those hombres might be ambitious and see this as a chance to take over the bunch.”
“I’ll post more guards around town,” Dyson replied in a clipped, somewhat irritated tone. To the ladies, he went on in a more conciliating fashion, “As I said, you don’t have to worry about anything like this happening again, I assure you.”
“I hope you’re right,” Jean said. “I’m starting to regret that we ever agreed to go along with this.”
“I’ve always regretted it,” Cecilia said.
Before any of them could say anything else, the hotel doors opened and Rance Plummer came in. The lanky ranch foreman strode toward Bo, holding a familiar Colt, but not in a threatening manner.
“Saw this gun layin’ outside and recognized it as yours, Creel,” he said as he extended the revolver to Bo.
“Thanks,” Bo said as he took the gun. “I was about to go look for it.”
“You’re lucky nobody walked off with it.” Plummer grinned. “Reckon it helped that folks are just now startin’ to come back out into the street after that little whoop-de-do. How come hell broke loose like that?”
“Shooting those two men was a distraction so Jaime Mendoza could try to kidnap Miss Tolman here,” Bo replied as he nodded toward Luella. “That’s the best way we can figure it.”
“He wasn’t after all five of the young ladies this time, like he was when he and his bunch jumped you on the way here?”
“Didn’t appear to be,” Bo said with a slight frown. “Nobody made a move toward them. They just went after Miss Tolman.”
“You should feel special,” Rose told Luella. “The big bad bandit only had eyes for you this time.”
Luella shuddered and said, “Please. I don’t even want to think about it.”
Plummer pointed with a thumb and said to Bo and Scratch, “The boys and me were down the street, watchin’ the contest. When things started poppin’, we tried to get to where you two boys were. Figured we could lend you a hand again. But there were too many folks rushin’ around and gettin’ in the way. We never could manage it.”
“We appreciate the effort,” Bo told him. “How would you like a job, Rance?”
Plummer cocked a bushy eyebrow and said, “I already got one. Foreman of the SJ, remember?”
“This job would be temporary, just until all these competitions Mr. Dyson is putting on are over. Scratch and I could use somebody to help us keep an eye on the ladies.”
“We sure could, Rance,” Scratch added.
A grin stretched across Plummer’s deeply tanned face. “Keepin’ an eye on pretty girls . . . Are you sure that ain’t somethin’ I should be paying you fellas for the chance to do?”
Bo chuckled and said, “I didn’t say anything about pay. This is more in the nature of a volunteer job.”
“In that case, I reckon I’m volunteerin’,” Plummer said. “That is, if the ladies don’t mind havin’ another old pelican around.”
“We’re fine with that, Mr. Plummer,” Cecilia said.
The others nodded.
The doors opened again, but this time they flew back and struck the walls hard. Hugh Craddock came in at a run and skidded to a halt as he looked around the lobby. When his eyes reached Cecilia, he exclaimed, “Miss Spaulding!” and rushed toward her.
Scratch got in his way. Bo and Plummer flanked the silver-haired Texan, and together, they made a formidable trio.
“Hold on there, mister,” Scratch said as Craddock stopped again, but only a couple of feet away. The rancher’s jaw jutted out angrily.
“Get out of my way, you old coots,” he snapped. “I just want to make sure Miss Spaulding is all right.”
“I’m fine,” Cecilia said as she stepped up so she could look between Scratch and Rance Plummer. “Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Craddock.”
“I’m making it my business.”
“You’ve been trying to ever since we met in Fort Worth,” Cecilia told him coolly. “It hasn’t worked so far, has it?”
Craddock didn’t like that, but he just glowered and didn’t say anything else. Clearly, he was relieved to find that Cecilia was unhurt, even if she hadn’t warmed up to him any.
Dyson said, “Ladies, I’m sure you’re all shaken and upset about what happened, so why don’t you go upstairs and rest for a while? We’ll have supper here in the hotel dining room tonight and get a fresh start in the morning with the shooting competition.”
“If you’re bound and determined to go through with this,” Bo said, “I don’t reckon we can stop you.”
Dyson summoned up a smile. “We’re all going to put this tragedy behind us,” he declared. “And tomorrow will be the biggest day in Silverhill’s history.”
* * *
Philip Armbruster, Guadalupe Sanchez, and two more members of Jaime Mendoza’s band of thieves skulked through the darkness toward the smokehouse where Mendoza was locked up. It was very late, and Silverhill, despite being a boomtown, had gone to sleep for the most part.
Armbruster was no longer dressed as a Mexican peasant, but he didn’t look like he normally did, either. He wore the trousers from his tweed suit, plus a white shirt, but no vest, tie, or hat. The shirt’s sleeves were rolled up over his forearms. With a couple of days’ worth of beard stubble on his chin and cheeks, he could pass as a laborer.
A half hour spent in one of Silverhill’s more squalid saloons, eavesdropping on the conversations of the men who drank there, had provided quite a bit of information to Armbruster. He knew that Mendoza was locked up in a sturdy smokehouse next to the town’s blacksmith shop, with armed men standing guard over him around the clock.
&nbs
p; He had found out, as well, that the competitions staged by Forbes Dyson were slated to continue, beginning with a shooting contest the next morning, to be followed by a horse race in the afternoon and a boxing tournament that evening.
The boxing matches, as the culmination of the celebration, were bound to draw the biggest crowd. That was the time when the rest of Mendoza’s men would make their move, storming the smokehouse to rescue their leader. Armbruster hoped to sneak up to the building, get Mendoza’s attention somehow, and whisper the plan to him through the wall.
When they paused in a patch of darkness fifty yards from the back of the smokehouse, Armbruster said quietly to Sanchez, “You and the other two men stay here, Lupe.”
“What makes you think you give the orders now, amigo?” Sanchez growled.
“If I’m seen around Jaime’s prison, it won’t be as suspicious,” Armbruster pointed out. “I can pretend to be just a drunken gringo. There are plenty of them stumbling around Silverhill tonight.”
“This is true, I suppose,” Sanchez admitted grudgingly. “We will wait here. Try not to get caught.”
“Believe me, that’s my intention.”
Armbruster moved like a phantom through the darkness. He felt a little like a dime-novel sleuth. At times in the past, when money was tight, he had given some thought to trying to write one of those lurid potboilers. He had read plenty of them to pass the time, and spewing out page after page of rambling, semiliterate drivel seemed easy enough.
The idea of an honest journalist writing something as sleazy and disreputable as fiction always put him off, though. He would stick with reporting the truth.
He reached the back of the smokehouse and carefully ran his hands over the thick beams of which it was constructed. He was trying to find a tiny chink so he could put his lips to it and hiss in an attempt to catch the prisoner’s attention.
While he was doing that, Armbruster heard footsteps approaching the smokehouse. That didn’t have to mean anything, but he stiffened in apprehension, anyway.
“Evening, boss,” said one of the guards posted in front of the building.
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