by Stephen Bly
“The tracks show the herd was driven south.”
Brannon mounted El Viento and rubbed the back of his neck. “I assumed Porter drove the cattle right to his place, but maybe not. Ramon, take your men, plus Jaime and Mateo, and follow the trail of the cattle. But hang back, and don’t get too close. Find out where they’re kept. We’ll catch up with you as soon as Earl is free. We need to know ahead of time how many fighting men Porter has with the herd.”
“You will go to the mesa?”
“Yes, I’ll take Fletcher with me.”
Estaban rode over to Brannon. “I will go to the mesa with you.”
“No, you need to rest. Go back to the rancho and tell the Señora what we are doing. Is there any quick way out of this city?”
“Ride straight north on this street and then circle around to the west,” Ramon advised. “When should we expect you?”
“In three days at the most.”
Pushing their way through the bartering crowd, Brannon and Fletcher rode north.
Dry air, but not hot, they hardly noticed the dust from the street. Brannon rolled the sleeves of his white shirt halfway up his forearms. In the stream of people approaching Magdalena at the north entrance he noticed three Anglos riding tired Texas ponies.
Brannon pulled his hat down, planning to ride by, but one called out.
“Excuse me, partner. You, on that big black—you’re American, ain’t ya?”
Brannon glanced up. “What can I do for you, stranger?”
“We ain’t never been down in this part of Mexico before. We’s lookin’ for La Serpantia Dorader. Got to meet a fella there, but I ain’t got no idea where it is.”
“You looking for Captain Porter, by chance?”
The man broke into a smile. “Yes, sir, we are. Hear he’s hirin’ on, and we need a little job south of the border for a while… know what I mean? We’re carrying this letter of approval from Colonel H. B. Johnson himself.”
“Letter of approval, you say?”
“Yep. Ain’t jist anybody who can hire on with Porter. You have to have a letter of approval from a Confederate officer. Been carrying this letter for ten years, jist in case I needed it.”
“I didn’t know that. I think maybe recruitment has slacked off since you got that letter. He seems to be rounding up just about anybody.”
“Why, was you going to sign on yourself ?”
Brannon began to circle the city with the others riding along. “We aim to talk to him.”
“Then you know where he is?”
“Yep.”
“You headin’ there now?”
“Yep.”
“Mind if we tag along?”
“Be my guests.”
“This is our lucky day, boys. We don’t have to waste time in the city. Say, this here letter recommends six of us from North Carolina, but three of us took some lead up in Arizona. Two dead and the other shot up bad. If ya want to, you can jist pretend like you are two of those other boys.”
Brannon kept a stern face. “That’s mighty thoughtful of you. How’d your friends get shot?”
“They was cold-blooded murdered by that outlaw named Stryker Banyon.”
Fletcher offered, “You don’t mean that Stuart Brannon chap?”
“That’s the one! They was on the train just goin’ about their business.”
“And he shot them point blank?” Brannon asked.
“Well, no sir. I guess they was, you know, robbing the train, but they hardly ever do anything mean enough to shoot.”
“Wasn’t that the famous Matee gang?” Brannon asked.
“Why, that’s us. What’s left of us. I’m Cletus Matee, and them is my cousins, Taft and Tater.”
“Howdy, boys.” Brannon tipped his hat.
“Say, I don’t remember your name.”
“Well,” Brannon began, “most around here call me El Viejo.”
“El Viejo? The old man? Shoot, you don’t look much over forty.”
“You know how they are on a cattle drive. I was the boss, so I’m called The Old Man.”
Tater spoke up. “Yeah, but what was your name in the States?”
“Tater,” Cletus scolded. “Don’t you ever ask that. We ain’t in Carolina now. It don’t matter what a man used to be called. No, sir. Sorry about that, El Viejo. These boys are new to the West and they jist ain’t learned yet.”
“No problem.”
Matee squinted at Fletcher. “How about you, furiner? What do you want us to call ya?”
“Ed,” Brannon interjected. “Just call him Ed.”
“Ed?” Fletcher sputtered.
Brannon silenced him with a curt nod.
Little more was said until they partially circled Magdalena and rode a very dusty road toward the west. Brannon and Fletcher rode together, then Cletus, with Taft and Tater bringing up the rear.
Fletcher stretched out an arm. “I presume that’s the mesa out there?”
“It’s the only one in this direction.”
“You can’t sneak up on it,” Fletcher whispered. “What’s the plan?”
“Just ride in there with these old boys, I suppose.”
“Even El Viejo wouldn’t stand a chance with thirty men in their own lair.”
“We’ll do all right until someone figures out who we are. Sounds to me like the number of men has dwindled. As far as I understand, no one knows who I am.”
“What about Rube Woolsey, the man at the well? If he’s with Porter, he’ll spot you.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t thought about him. Anyway, they must have split the gang and sent some of with the cattle. Maybe he’s on that detail.”
Cletus lagged back to converse with his cousins.
“And maybe someone else will recognize the legendary Stuart Brannon.”
“The only good thing about those Hawthorne Miller books is that they’re so exaggerated no one would ever figure out it was me.”
“How far away do you think they can see us up on the mesa?”
“I expect a good spyglass could pick us up now.”
Cletus came riding up. “Say, El Viejo, where did you get that horse? He sure is a beauty.”
“His name is El Viento, and he’s faster than the wind. A lady up in Colorado gave him to me.”
“A ladies’ man, huh? Look, we don’t speak none of this here Mexican. Maybe you could introduce us to a few ladies.”
“If the opportunity presents itself, I’ll do that.”
“Tater heard that Porter will pay us three dollars a day and expenses. Is that what you heard?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Yes, sir, it does. We been kind of thinkin’ about gettin’ out of the outlaw business. After a while you get tired of hidin’ in the rocks.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Fletcher said, “how long have you men been doing this?”
“What’s it been, Taft? About five months, I guess.”
The shortest of the three, Taft rubbed his six-day beard. “Five months and three days since we pulled that job in Poplar Gulch, Arkansas.”
“Well, boys, a little cattle drive ought to do you good.”
“Yep, that’s what I been tellin’ ’em.”
The road stretched in a straight line for ten miles. Now a very slow ascent turned to the south as the men nooned from the back of the saddle. The sun was halfway down the sky as they reached the base of the mesa.
“Okay, Old Man, where do we go from here?”
“Unless I’m wrong, I expect a greeting party to come out and meet us. Cletus, you’re packing that letter of approval. How about you leading and doing the talking?”
“Yep, I will. Look up there. The trail branches off and goes through that narrow rock canyon. Is that the right way?”
“I could almost bank on it.” Brannon dropped back behind the others. He pulled his Winchester out of the scabbard and laid it across the saddle as he rode.
“Is this where we make the play?” Fletcher asked softl
y.
“I hope not. We haven’t found Earl yet. But who knows?”
In moments, two riders appeared, horses trotting straight down the narrow trail at them. Brannon spotted two more men in the rocks on the high side of the mesa. With hat pulled low and hand on the rifle, he listened.
“I’m afraid you boys are on the wrong trail,” one of the men explained. “This is a private road. You’ll have to turn around.”
“We ain’t lookin’ for no trouble,” Cletus offered. “But we were lookin’ for Captain Porter. We got a letter of approval here from Col. H. B. Johnson himself.”
“A letter of approval? You boys from the South?”
“I didn’t learn to talk this way in New York City,” Cletus replied.
After looking at the letter, the spokesman waved off the gunmen on the mesa. “Glad to see you, boys. We haven’t had any volunteers in over a year! Ain’t many of us left, so we just sort of drafted some, if you know what I mean.”
“Drafted?” Cletus said.
“We pulled a few out of town and put them to work punching cattle.”
“Mexicans?”
“Nope. You can’t trust ’em. No Mexicans, Indians, or Yankees allowed.”
Brannon winked at Fletcher.
“I’ll lead you boys on up. Captain Porter will be mighty pleased to see you.”
The trail was so narrow they climbed to the top riding single file.
Easy to defend… and easy to get trapped. Sort of like Masada. This trail would be a tad spooky in the dark. They probably stake a couple guards at the bottom all night.
Lord, these men are just organized outlaws and murderers… and someone ought to do something about them. But I’d rather it not be me. I just want to find Earl and get him out of here.
The top of the mesa sloped gently to the south. Brannon reckoned it to be a mile long and a half mile wide. With only a few scraggly trees, the ground was covered with ankle-deep grass. At the head of the trail lay a small, fort-like compound that consisted of three modest adobe buildings facing each other around a small courtyard. A stout, shoulder-high adobe wall closed in the open side of the courtyard.
There seemed to be no corrals. Horses grazed all along the top of the mesa. Brannon could spot no more than a half-dozen men, who all stopped what they were doing to watch the new group come in.
Brannon hung back, letting Cletus do all the talking, and searched for traces of Earl Howland.
If he’s up here, he’s in one of those three little buildings. But which one?
A man with commanding presence and faded Confederate hat emerged from the center building and, after scanning the letter of approval, he greeted the newcomers. Brannon figured the man an inch or two taller than himself, clean-shaven, and packed at least two revolvers.
The man sized up the newly arrived crew. “You boys can bunk over in that house. Some of the men are out with the herd, so we have extra room. You made it just in time though. One day later and we would have pulled shuck.
“You’re in the army, boys. You’ll help in the liberation of Baja. And you get to divide up the spoils when we sell the cattle. The conscripts will drive herd. You’re needed mainly for your guns. Now eat some supper. It will be the last meal we have before we hit the trail.”
While he filled up his soiled tin plate with a gray lumpy stew, Brannon chatted with the cook.
“Isn’t that old boy over in the chair going to eat?” he asked.
“Lee Don? He’s a guardin’ the conscripts. He eats later.”
“How many of them shanghaied cowboys are in there?”
“One.”
“Only one?”
“The others are out with the herd, but that one’s a hard case. I don’t figure he’ll ride with us, if you get the drift.”
Brannon grabbed a hunk of bread that felt hard as stone and wandered across the dirt courtyard to the man in the chair who gazed at the food.
“Are you Lee Don?”
“Yep,” the big man answered.
“You should get some grub. Captain Porter says to eat hearty. We’ll be on the trail soon.”
“You one of those new men who just rode in?”
“Yep.”
“You going to take my turn on guard?”
“Yep. Any special instructions?”
“Sure,” Lee Don grinned, revealing a deficit of front teeth. “If he tries anything, shoot him.”
“Am I supposed to feed him?”
“Don’t matter to me. He probably ain’t going to be around long enough to digest it anyways.” Lee Don wandered back across the yard and took his place at the dinner table.
Brannon pushed the rough, worn wooden door open a crack and sat down at the chair facing the yard. He glanced at Fletcher who had taken the horses out to the mesa and was loosening the saddles.
With a wad of bitter, salty stew crammed in his cheek, he spoke in a hushed tone. “Earl?”
“Is that you, Mr. Brannon?”
"Yep. How bad you shot?”
“Just caught the back of my leg. It stopped bleedin’, but it burns like the dickens.”
“Can you walk?”
“I could, but they got me roped to a chair. What’s the plan?”
“Wait ’til night, I suppose.”
“Who’s with ya?”
“Just me and Fletcher.”
“How’d you get up here without a gunfight?”
“They think I’m joining the cause.”
“Watch your step. They’ll shoot ya for sure if they think you’re crossin’ ’em.”
“I’m closing the door. Porter is heading this way.”
Two men carrying shotguns followed Porter as he approached. “You one of the new men with Cletus?” Porter asked.
“Yep.”
“You think you got what it takes to be in this outfit?”
“Yep.”
“Well, we got a traitor in our midst. There’s a man in that room who refuses to assist us.”
“A man of narrow vision, no doubt.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Porter sneered. “Now go in there and shoot him. We might as well find out about you right now.”
Brannon stood and looked Porter in the eyes. “I hate to waste a bullet. Couldn’t we just hang him or throw him over the side of a cliff?”
“I can guarantee you, we have plenty of bullets.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
Brannon pushed into the room and swung the door closed behind him.
SIX
“Earl,” Brannon whispered, “I’m going to pretend to shoot ya, and you’ve got to play dead.” He held his revolver a foot above the earthen floor and fired into the ground. Dust flew and the room smelled of gunpowder. Pulling his knife, he sliced apart the ropes that bound Howland’s hands and feet.
As he hoped, the leg wound still bloody, Brannon smeared blood on his hand and across Howland’s face. He jammed on his friend’s hat and hefted him across his shoulders. As he turned to the door, Porter shoved it open and stepped inside.
“What are you doing with him?”
“I figured you didn’t want the body rottin’ up the place, so I was going to toss this old boy over the edge of the mesa.”
Brannon studied Porter. His face too flushed. His neck too red. He drinks too much.
“Well, yes, that will be fine. Quick work like that will get you far in this outfit.”
“Yes, sir. Thank ya.”
Brannon had to turn sideways to get Howland through the doorway. He scooped up his rifle propped against the adobe wall.
“Hey, I don’t see any mortal wound.” One of Porter’s henchmen pointed at Howland.
“That’s why I screwed his hat down tight. It ain’t a pretty sight. Kind of like scalpin’ a man with dynamite. If you haven’t had your supper, I wouldn’t suggest lookin’ at it. Do you still want to see?”
“Not me,” the other henchman intoned. “Captain, I’m goin’ to grab some chuck.”
“Ace, you go with this man. What’s your name?”
“Call me Tex.”
“I thought y’all were from North Carolina?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, well, help Tex get rid of this hard case,” Porter said.
“How about me just rounding up that fellow over by the remuda?” Brannon suggested. I figure I’ll have to pack this body horseback anyway.” He watched Porter’s eyes. Empty.
Lord, there’s not a scrap of mercy in that man.
“I give the orders around here,” Porter said.
“Fair enough, but he is gettin’ heavy.”
“Ace will go with you, and report right back to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Brannon replied, “and can we use the horses?”
“Yeah, I don’t care. Grab another man if you need to.”
“You want to help me tote this old boy?” Brannon asked.
Ace pushed his hat back with the barrel of his scattergun. “I ain’t carryin’ no dead man.”
As they approached the remuda, Brannon yelled at Fletcher, still acting busy with horses. “Hey, Ed! Bring a couple of them mounts over here.”
Fletcher approached with El Viento and his own horse.
“And toss a hooly over that dusty chestnut. He looks stout enough to tote a body. How come all these horses are still saddled, Ace?”
“We’re ridin’ out of here real soon.”
Brannon tossed Howland across the saddle on his horse, almost losing him as he slipped toward the ground. He grabbed Howland’s belt and pulled him up on the saddle.
“Maybe you ought to tie him down,” Ace suggested.
“What for? If he falls off, it won’t hurt him.”
“That’s for sure. I’ll get my pony.”
Brannon and Fletcher mounted as they waited for Ace to circle around near them.
Ace looked down at Howland. “You really took the top of his head, did ya?”
Brannon replied, “there’s just not a clean way to do it, is there?”
Ace rode his horse next to Howland. “Well, I’ve seen plum near ever’thing. He bent down so his head was only a couple feet from Howland’s and yanked off the hat.
Howland jerked up his head, face still smeared with blood, and roared at the top of his lungs.
Ace shot up and tugged back on the reins. His horse reared and bolted across the meadow. Ace plunged to the ground as several of the men from the headquarters ran out, guns drawn.