We didn’t find their night camp. They weren’t taking any chances. No fires. They were the hunted now, even if it was only the two of us, and they didn’t know we were coming.
»»•««
It was our eighth day out. We had cold vittles after a cold night, no better than a dog’s breakfast. It began to drizzle. There wasn’t much said by either of us. We spoke when there was something important to say.
Flaco did ask me, “What is you real name?”
I frowned at him. He arched his eyes.
I guessed he had as much right to know as anyone. “Athel. Don’t say nothing to nobody.”
We were able to take up the trail, even with the rain. Found their empty campsite too.
The country had turned into a maze of ravines, gorges, and box canyons. A man could get good lost out here, but the trail we were following looked like it knew where it was heading. They didn’t blunder up any dead ends. The trail, running down a narrow ravine, looked more traveled too, even if rainwashed. Maybe we were getting close to Las Norias. I hoped not. I didn’t want them to reach it before we did, whatever we were going to do.
Before noon the rain stopped. We’d be able to get a better idea of how fresh the tracks were. They’d been moving slow, but in the early afternoon they’d picked up their pace. The toes of the hooves were dug in a little deeper, and the distance between prints was a little further. It was like they were expecting to reach someplace soon. Las Norias? Maybe they needed water and there was some ahead. No water-running arroyos here except a muddy trickle down gullies. Maybe they only wanted to get a move on and get out of this weather. Sounded like a good idea to me.
We stopped in a wind-sheltered ravine for jerky and corn dodgers. We both shivered in the cold-wet, and the wind picked up. Sometimes we were out of it, but when the winding ravine made a turn, the north wind rushed down it like a river of air either chilling our backs or hitting our faces. The horses weren’t happy either.
The ravine’s steep sides were twenty, thirty feet high. Sometimes it was as wide as the trail, a few feet, and other times it was as wide as it was deep and ever wider. Rocks, scrub brush, and cactus.
They weren’t far ahead, we agreed. Horse turds were fresh enough. They had slowed and then sped up again.
Late afternoon we were taking it slow, walking the horses some. It wouldn’t do to run up on the banditos in this skinny ravine. We were hoping for it to open soon out into hilly ground. We wanted to be able to see them in the distance and hopefully find their night camp.
We didn’t have any idea what we were going to do. We talked about stealing into the camp in the middle of the night, hopefully find the girls, and sneak them out without a fuss. That was hoping for a whole heap of luck. We’d have to “ir al tanteo,” Flaco said, something like “take it to trial.” Sort of like saying “play it by ear.”
The shot was like a lightning crack down the ravine. The horses reared, and we sawed them around colliding into the spares. It was an irrational run back down the ravine, a long straight stretch with leather cracking and hooves sounding like thunder. Mud sprayed behind us. Shots snapped one after the other with rock chips flying off the stony sidewalls. Looking back, Flaco was firing blindly behind him. The bullets kept coming no matter how far and how fast we rode. The run seemed to have no end. It was a continuous rattle of hooves on stone, bullets wanging, and horses gasping hard. I hugged Cracker’s neck hanging on hard and kept low.
The shots stopped, but their echoes followed. Turning to look back, I saw three empty horses.
I reined Cracker to a sliding stop with the other horses piling into us. There was blood on Flaco’s mount’s neck. I tied the reins off on a mesquite and lopped down the ravine to the bend that put us out the line of fire.
I peeked down the ravine and lying on his side was Flaco, twenty yards away. I called his name a couple of times, but with the growing puddle of dark blood on the stones and the queer twist in his body, I knew he was done. Watching close, I stared at him for minutes hoping to see the slightest twitch. Nothing.
The despair chomped down on me. I’d lost my amigo, my pard, and my chances for saving the girls were cut in half. I stayed there a long time thinking on Flaco. It was a blur of thoughts. I kept an eye peeled down the ravine hoping the bastards that shot him would come down for the loot. I waited a long time, thinking. I reminded myself that I’d been willing to go it alone before this. I was still willing.
It was high time to pull out of there, but I didn’t want to ride into those bastards’ sights. It was the same deal when they almost got me that morning we came up the escarpment and they shot that dun from under me. Two men, one with a buffalo rifle, the other with a lever-action. It might be the same two men. Well, one of them, because Flaco had killed one the other day. I doubted they had earlier spotted me and Flaco. They musta left a rear guard just to be safe. Eight against one.
They may have left, they may still be there. I was going after them. Not seeing me come back right away, they may have thought I’d hightailed it. Something else, they only saw the two of us, but they might think there were more behind us.
Going right down the ravine into a Sharps’ muzzle wasn’t much of a notion. I looked up the ravine’s side.
Further back up the ravine I found a chimney on the left side, sort of a vertical funnel to the top, over thirty feet up. I cut a piece of cord and tied it to my rifle so I’d have free hands. Leaving my hat and spurs with the horses, I tied them off loose so they could break away if I didn’t come back. I didn’t much like that climb, kept slipping on the wet rock. It helped me keep my mind off things, off Marta and Flaco, even as I was doing it for them. Scraped up my hands and elbows. Banged my left knee good.
Reaching the top, I peeked over and checked out the plateau top. Keeping low and moving from bush to bush to rock, I was guessing how far it was to the shooters’ spot, if they were still there. I wanted them to be. The further I went, the slower I moved and quieter too. The long straight stretch we’d run up was easy to make out, and I figured they’d be where it turned into a bend. I didn’t really realize how long that stretch was until I followed it up there.
I passed by the first bend, and then angled to the edge of the ravine. I listened. There was only the wind, and I realized how cold I’d gotten. A horse whinnied. It was further down the ravine. I turned to head that way, and then thought they’d picket their horses further up the ravine and they’d be back to my right. Maybe I could shoot the horses, and that’d put them on foot. But then they’d know I was here. Surprising them by putting slugs through them would be more better. Plus, I didn’t have to shoot no horses.
I crept along the edge, staying back enough so I’d not be seen or knock any rocks over the side. I’d move a few steps and listen. Nothing. They were sure quiet.
I took a quick look over the side to get the lay of the ravine. I had to take a second look. They were thinking, that was for sure. Piled in the ravine was brush, deadwood, and broken mesquite limbs. That’ll have stopped us if we’d charged on through. I moved a little further and peeked again. Nothing. The third time I looked over I saw a man, the one with the Winchester. I listened, then looked again. It was the bandito wearing the black sombrero with silver coins on the crown, the one that killed Fred. I’d have no regrets about what was coming. Looking again, I saw there was a Sharps lying beside him. I was sure slow today. There weren’t two of them, only this one. No wonder I ain’t heard no talking.
I looked again, and he was getting up, picking up the Sharps. I ducked back. I heard the crunch of gravel, and he was walking back to his horse. He’d given up on waiting. I took off moving as fast as I could and still keep quiet. Then I heard him pulling down brush from the barricade.
I got in a good spot where I could see the horse and thought about letting him get on it to give me a clear shot. But I thought if I missed, he’d have a better chance of getting away mounted. I didn’t hear any more brush busting and listened, hoping
the horse would greet the Mex.
He did. I looked over and the horse was looking up dead straight at me. The Mex looked up as I raised up and we fired our Winchesters at the same time. Rock spray hit me in the face, but I’d had an edge on him. I was expecting him, he was surprised by me. He got off a shot, but I got off four as fast I could work the lever. I heard the horse scream. Damn tarnation!
I rolled away trying to wipe rock dust from my face. Wished I’d brung a canteen up with me.
Now I was afraid to poke my head over the edge. He’d be waiting for that. I moved down a little further and took a quick look at the horse. He was still standing, but was twitching and nodding his head. I didn’t like this. I ain’t got no choice but to shoot the horse. I moved again—ol’ Pancho taught me never to pop up for a look-see in the same place twice. I shot the horse twice and heard it kicking gravel. This was followed by a whole bunch of cussing. Didn’t know all the words, but I got the idea.
Now came the hard part, rooting that desperado out. I couldn’t pass until he was dead. Sure, at night he would probably make a getaway. Don’t know how far he’d get on foot, even if he got his canteen, but I wasn’t letting Flaco’s and Fred’s killer get away, no way. There were only so many places I could shoot from, and I was stuck on this side of the ravine.
Moving a little, I popped up and fired just to worry him. Didn’t see him. I reloaded from my pistol belt. My fear was that he’d take off down the ravine zigging and zagging and using the turns for cover. Then he’d be ahead of me and probably waiting to bushwhack me for a horse. I shoulda brought the shotgun, had a better chance of stopping him at a run.
I thought I was in a good place if he made a run for it. Now to spook him out. I threw some rocks down, but that didn’t flush out nothing. A bundle of burning brush would be nice, but it was too wet, not much dead brush, or living, for that matter. I’d have to go away from the ravine to collect it. Sure is hard doing this alone. That made me think about Marta. No time for that.
I sent some bigger rocks bouncing down the side. He moved. Musta been close. I have an idea where he is now. I dropped two big rocks, and he jumped out from under an overhang and fired three pistol shots with two twanging off the rock wall. That gave me an idea. I set a canteen-sized rock teetering on the edge and moved back to where I could see more of the ravine’s bottom.
Taking careful aim, I shot the rock, sending it over the edge. He stepped out and shot at where he thought I was. I put a slug right through him, and he crumpled. Heck, that weren’t so hard.
Chapter Fifty
I didn’t have that shovel I’d brought, but I had rocks. I buried Flaco to the side of the ravine under sandstone. His guns I buried with him, but I kept his short-barrel Schofield saddle gun, stuck it in a coat pocket. His carbine in its scabbard had been hit in the receiver and cracked. Buried it with him too, but took the ammo. There was a monillo—Mexican buckeye—by his head. It would do for a marker. In the spring, it would show purple flowers. I stood there a few minutes. Just me and the horses, their heads hanging. It seemed like a rotten way to go after all the things he’d done, some good, some bad. I knew he was a good man at heart, and that’s what counted. A question hung up in my head, “Why did you stay with me? You didn’t have to come. I didn’t expect it, didn’t ask it.” I wondered what I’d of done if we’d switched places. I hoped I would of gone with him.
He’d said something about relatives in Del Rio. No telling how many Vegas there were, but I’d ask around if anyone knew of Héctor “Flaco” Vega who’d been a Rurale. I wished him peace on his journey.
Damn if I didn’t feel about as lonely as a preacher on payday weekend. The low dark clouds, drizzle, and the windy cold didn’t help. It was right then that I walked over to Cracker, mounted, and turned his head to the Dew. “I can’t do this anymore,” I said loudly with a little echo down the ravine. “It’s too damn much dying. Everyone in on this is going to die. I ain’t changing anything if I keep going or I ride back to the Dew. Only when and how they’re going to die is all I’d change.” I cursed Maxwell, I cursed Weyland, I cursed El Xiuhcoatl and his cutthroats, I cursed the Rurales, and I cursed God. Lastly, I cursed myself for even caring.
Cracker snorted.
“Shut up,” I said. I gave him his head, and he turned west toward the low sun and Marta.
There was blood beside the dead horse, but no Mex. “Damn! Shoulda shot him again after he was down.” Just more dying, I thought.
His canteen and saddlebags were gone. I busted the stock off the Sharps and smashed the breech block against a boulder.
Tying Flaco’s lariat to the hackamore of one of the spare horses, I ran it through the second one’s hackamore and Flaco’s, then tied it to Cracker’s saddle horn. On foot, I’d haze them ahead of me hoping they wouldn’t get away. They’d give me some moving cover.
I started the string off and soon came across more blood and a black sombrero. I picked it up to cut off the coins later. He didn’t do like I’d hoped, start shooting from ahead as the mob herded down the ravine.
Instead, he was hiding in a niche in the right side wall. He announced himself by shooting under Cracker, and he got me. Cracker started bucking something furious. I hung onto his stirrup, and he dragged me down the ravine. I dropped my rifle and was trying to get my revolver out while stumbling and dragging. Expecting him to come after me, I rolled onto the ground and started shooting, but he wasn’t coming out.
Scrambling behind too small a rock for cover, I whistled at Cracker. Bless his heart. He dragged that string to a halt and was looking back at me. He was out of the line of fire, but I was afraid that anymore shooting might set them off again.
I was past the bandito. I could keep going, but I sure didn’t like the idea of having him behind me, even if he was on foot. I had to come back this way, too.
He didn’t have much better cover than me, so I pulled out my Merwin Hulbert and fired all six rounds as fast as I could, dropped it, and came out from behind my rock with my Remington ready. He was doing the same, and all I saw was muzzle flashes so close I felt the blasts, felt a burn on my calf. I like to piss my pants. He was lying on the gravel at my feet. We were that close. The smell of black powder swirled about. I knew I was hit, in the belly. I dropped to my knees and started barfing up breakfast. I fell back against the wall, heard Cracker snort.
It was a sharp gut-wrenching pain, right in the center of my belly. I didn’t want to look, but I did. It wasn’t right. There wasn’t no blood. I felt around. “Well, I be damned. I ain’t shot.” I was so wrought up that the pain in my guts was only nerves. I started breathing again, laughing too. Climbing to my feet, I drank from the Mex’s canteen washing the nasty taste out of my mouth. I rolled the Mex over, dead as year-old jerky. He’d been pistol hit in the belly and chest. The first rifle shot had bit him in the right side. One against seven.
Finding some carne seca—sorta like beef jerky—and stale tortillas in his saddlebag, I put the jerky in my own bag and fed the leather-stiff tortillas to the horses. I was laughing out loud, not believing I thought I‘d been gut shot. I was thanking my lucky star for that one. Building a smoke, I sat puffing it. The graze on the inside of my right calf hurt a little. I washed it best I could. I tossed his two revolvers up onto the ravine top. Doubt anyone’d ever find them there. I left him lying in the middle of the trail. I took his Winchester, the gun that kilt Flaco, and its two cartons of ammo. It was a ’73 like mine, but .38-40. Since there was only one of me, it might come in handy.
Rearranging the string of horses, I mounted Cracker and headed down the ravine. The whole time I was telling him how damn lucky I was. I hoped that luck would hold out. It perked me up anyways, and I kept thinking, Marta, I’m coming for you. Hang on, girl.
»»•««
After a piece, I came to a place where they’d taken a rest. Trotting down the ravine on the wet ground, I spied a piece of blue cloth. It was the torn cuff of Marta’s blue flannel shirt, h
ad dried blood smears on it. I hoped it was only from wiping her bloody nose and not something worse. Dismounting and picking it up, it came to me that she still had faith in me coming for her. Was she letting me know she’s expecting me? I felt like I was holding a piece of her. After holding it for a time, I stuck it in my shirt pocket over my heart.
Re-mounting, I spurred Cracker down the ravine.
I had to catch up with the banditos and fast. I had to end this. My best bet was to find their camp, and that meant catching up with them before dark. Night wasn’t all that far off.
»»•««
The ravine grew shallower and broader until it opened out into a wide valley. After sweeping the rocky valley with the field glasses, I moved on. There was nothing to be seen. The mist and bands of fog didn’t let me see far details, and it was darkening in the east. The clouds were low. Night would soon fall. I had about as much chance of finding their camp or even catching up with them as I did having one of Mrs. Moran’s beefsteak suppers tonight.
I didn’t pay attention to the odd rock up ahead, but as I got closer, I realized its color wasn’t right. In the poor light, I couldn’t make it out proper. Through the field glasses I made out a grullo, a gray horse, laying on its side, no saddle. There was something behind it. I rode closer, slowly. Behind the stiff-legged horse was a reddish-brown blanket. I stopped. I couldn’t make myself move forward. After a spell of just sitting and staring, I slid off and eased forward, circling around the horse. This don’t seem real, what I’m looking at. It’s like a screaming puma will jump out at me. There’s black hair hanging out of the blanket. I sat staring for a long time.
Kneeling beside the lumpy bundle, I opened it with dread. I was and I’m staring at little Inés’ battered face.
Muddled thoughts run though my head. I’m glad it’s not Marta, but they’d killed Inés, a sweet, kind girl…why? Why do that? Do they know I’m following, is this a warning? That didn’t make sense. Did the shot-dead horse have something to do with it? It had been shot through the chest.
The Hardest Ride Page 23