Terror Trail

by Lyle Brandt

  Zapata was relieved at length when the federale column turned westward, but that relief was short-lived. Their present route of march would lead his adversaries toward Ascensión unless they turned off to the north or south before reaching that city thirty-odd miles distant from the desert they were currently traversing. If they stayed on course, it meant Zapata’s riders would be following their enemies, most of the journey over open ground, when any federale might glance back and see their dust rising.

  And even if the soldiers did not spot them, did not change directions and attack, how would it benefit Zapata to arrive at Pancho Villa’s stronghold once the troops had passed, driving him on to safer territory? How would the exchange of gold for stolen horses then take place at all?

  A sinking feeling in Zapata’s stomach cautioned him that he had made the long ride from Morelos to Chihuahua on a fool’s errand. His growing band of revolutionaries needed horses, and the price quoted by Pancho Villa was a fair one, but with each mile that he traveled farther north, Emiliano came across another stumbling block. His grandmother would have regarded them as evil omens and advised him to turn back, seek livestock closer to his base of operations, even if he had to rustle up a herd himself and place himself beyond the law.

  It would not be the first time he had crossed that line, and so far he had lived to tell the tale.

  But if he followed federales to the very place where he intended to commit a crime—and one that might have repercussions in el norte—would it not prove him a fool?

  Zapata loathed frustration, had since childhood, and impatience was something he had to guard against even today, when he was thirty-one years old and fully grown. It could betray him if he let it, and for one who planned to overturn the very government of Mexico, such rash behavior might prove fatal, to himself and to his cause.

  Emiliano owed it to his men—and to thousands of the campesinos who had joined with him in spirit, even if they balked thus far at rising up against Díaz—to stay alive and lead them on to victory. Or, failing that, at least to a conclusion that would pave the way for his disciples to demand their freedom in the future.

  Shoulders slumped in resignation, close to weeping now but fighting it, he told Alfonso, “¡Es demasiado! It’s too much. We’re turning back.”

  “What of the horses, jefe?” Soberon inquired.

  “We can find others elsewhere, given time. We have already risked too much, even without the ride back to Morelos driving fourteen hundred animals.”

  Alfonso nodded, still watching the column of soldados as it drew away from them, westbound. “The men will not complain,” he said. “At least they had an outing, eh?”

  Zapata forced a smile. Replied, “And we shall live to fight another day.”

  “And Villa?”

  “He will learn to live with disappointment as we all do,” said Zapata. “To be fair, send out a rider with the message. He should reach Ascensión by midnight, or at least by dawn.”

  “Sí, jefe. I will see to it at once.”

  Sitting alone, Zapata wondered if it was a sin for him to feel relieved.

  * * *

  * * *

  Dusk was still at least two hours off when Itza-chu rejoined the posse, bringing word that he had spotted the box canyon from a distance and had seen horses contained within it. Sonya felt a subtle lifting of her spirits when she heard that news, then settled back into a kind of funk, imagining the trials that still lay ahead of them.

  First step, the party had agreed with Clint’s suggestion that they camp until night fell, no fire, hoping that no one, whether federales or villistas, happened by and spotted them.

  Next up, they had to deal with their lone prisoner, then move in on the stolen herd and try to wrest it from the control of Pancho Villa’s guards, ideally without drawing reinforcements from the outlaw’s main base camp. Sonya, for her part, was not sure that would be possible.

  Part three, whether or not they faced enhanced resistance from the canyon, eight of them—or nine, if they finished Zarita without leaving anyone to guard him in the meantime—must maneuver nearly fifteen hundred horses from their trap without provoking an aimless stampede.

  And finally, if all of those conditions were fulfilled, they had to drive the herd one hundred fifty miles across Chihuahua’s desert and the Rio Grande, avoiding hostile contacts while en route, returning them safely to Papa Alejandro’s hacienda.

  As Sonya reviewed the phases of Clint’s plan, to which she and Dolores had agreed, they now felt like the trials of Hercules from Greek mythology. And even Hercules, himself a demigod with powers far beyond the reach of mortal men, did not survive, slain by an arrow tipped in poison from the multiheaded Hydra that he had reputedly defeated earlier.

  In short, the prospect of a happy ending for their quest was faint, at best.

  The place that Clint selected for their campsite was a dry arroyo choked with yellow grass and tumbleweeds. The sky above was clear as the sun lowered, ruling out the prospect of a flash flood to disturb them while they waited for Clint’s signal to advance. Sonya found room to sit down with Dolores and their animals, after she’d checked the ground for rattlesnakes and scorpions, hoping she could relax a bit before they rose again and rode into the panther’s lair.

  “I don’t like waiting, even if it’s just for dark,” Dolores said.

  “Better than riding in where anyone can see and open fire on us,” Sonya replied.

  “Supongo que sí,” her twin said. “I suppose so. But the stalling sets my nerves on edge.”

  “I feel it, too,” said Sonya. “But you trust Clint’s judgment?”

  “Cómo no. Of course, but even if he’s right, and we succeed, it means we either have to start the horses north tonight, or Villa’s men rush over from their camp and trap us here.”

  “I wish we had more caballeros,” Sonya granted, “but the rest were needed back at home.”

  “And here we are. Nine left to do the job of twenty, even thirty, in the middle of the night. How many of us do you think will finally survive, hermana?”

  “I’m not counting anybody out just yet,” Sonya replied. “If fighting is required, we are as good as any man, eh? And we’ve brought along some of the hacienda’s best.”

  “Remember what the Frenchman said?” Dolores asked. “Some count, I think.”

  “Refresh my memory.”

  “He said, ‘God sides with big squadrons against the small,’ or words to that effect.”

  Sonya supplied the speaker’s name. “Comte de Bussy-Rabutin. And Voltaire disagreed with him. He said, ‘God does not side with the heavy battalions but with the best shots.’ ”

  Dolores laughed at that. Both sisters had been tutored in the classics and in history, dividing time between their studies and working around the ranch. “What would you do, then, with our prisoner, hermana?”

  “Kill him,” Sonya answered coldly. “He is no longer of any use to us.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I’m tired of waiting for those useless mongrels,” Pancho Villa told Alfonso Soberon. “Send four men to Ascensión, the next in line to go. Tell them to sniff out Rocha and Zarita first, before they go to drinking. Send them back to me at once.”

  “Sí, jefe. But they may not wish to come,” his second-in-command observed.

  “I don’t care what they wish for,” Villa sneered. “When they return, I’ll punish them accordingly, for wasting all our time.”

  “And if they don’t return?”

  “Then spread the word to all friends, near and far. Ten pesos for the head of each deserter. Twenty pesos for delivery to me alive, with only minor damage.”

  “I shall see to it at once, jefe.”

  Alfonso left Villa alone beside the campfire, sipping from a half-empty tequila bottle in between drags on a long, crooked cigar. Pancho had
made his mind up that the two drunkards who had defied his orders would serve better as examples to the rest of his bandidos than they’d ever been on any raid for cash or livestock. He would hold court over them with all his other men assembled, looking on, to judge which slacker was primarily responsible. That one would die by Villa’s own stern hand. The other might escape with simple flogging if he groveled and abased himself convincingly.

  Spilling a little blood would fortify his other pistoleros and remind them forcefully of who would always be in charge.

  At least as long as Pancho Villa lived.

  His thoughts shifted, turned once again back toward Emiliano Zapata, the gold that he was carrying to close their bargain on the horses stolen from New Mexico. If he did not arrive tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest, Villa would be forced to change his plans, remove the horses to another hideaway and shift his camp’s location likewise. Sitting still for too long in Villa’s profession tempted fate and weak-willed human beings, threatening his freedom and life itself.

  From his position near the fire, Villa saw four men riding out of camp, eastbound in the direction of Ascensión. At the same moment, Javier Jurado returned and sat beside him on a flat stone thrust up from the desert soil.

  “It’s done,” Alfonso said. “They’re going now.”

  “I see that,” Villa answered. “And they understand their orders?”

  Jurado nodded. “Find Rocha and Zarita first, before they start on the tequila and muchachas.”

  “And you trust them?”

  That produced a shrug. “As much as I trust anyone,” Javier said. “They are bandidos but not idiotas. They already know what’s waiting for Enrique and Jesús.”

  “Está bien,” Villa replied, letting it go. “I worry more about Zapata now.”

  Jurado frowned into the fire. “He would be foolish not to take the horses at the price you offered him. It will be good for everyone.”

  “If he can make it,” Villa said. “Our eyes and ears report the federales out in force since Agua Fria. Still no word about whoever executed their amigos.”

  “They will be discovered and eliminated,” Javier replied. He sounded confident.

  “But in the meantime they could trouble us,” said Villa. Swigging down a mouthful of tequila, waiting for the fumes to clear his sinuses, he said, “I have decided we should move the herd tomorrow.”

  “Move it where, jefe?” Jurado asked.

  “Do you remember Juan Baillères?”

  “Sí. The farmer with the ugly wife and daughters?”

  “That’s the one. His land is four or five miles from the canyon where we have the horses now,” Villa replied.

  “Does he have room to keep them for us? Will he do it?”

  “I think he would do most things for dinero,” Villa said. “Part of his land has wooded hills. There are corrals for livestock that he does not wish the federales to discover.”

  “Stolen?” asked Jurado.

  Villa shrugged. “I’ve never asked him, but it’s fairly obvious.”

  “He knows you are aware of that, jefe?”

  “He showed them to me. There were longhorn cattle last time.”

  “Fifteen hundred of them?” Javier was clearly skeptical.

  “I trust that he will make accommodations if the price is right. Also, we’ll leave some pistoleros to assist him.”

  “For how long, if I may ask?”

  “I tire of waiting for Zapata,” Villa answered. “If he does not reach us by tomorrow or the morning after that, no later, I will find another buyer for the herd.”

  “Emiliano won’t be happy,” Javier observed, “after he’s ridden all that way for nothing.”

  “Then he should have ridden faster, eh?” Villa winked at his second-in-command. “Time waits for no man in this world.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Clint Parnell craved a cup of hot black coffee, but he settled for a drink from his canteen instead. Having imposed the no-fire rule on his companions, he could not be seen to violate it, and in fact, his nerves were tight enough already that he did not need a caffeine boost to keep him on alert.

  Daylight was nearly gone, the desert’s temperature dropping as late afternoon gave way to the oncoming night. Clint had put on his fleece-lined corduroy jacket while others in his party reached for dusters or serapes, some buttoning shirts up to their necks for greater warmth. Someone had removed the saddle blanket from their captive’s horse and draped it over him so that his head and boots protruded, at the top and bottom, but his body was concealed.

  No problem there, Clint thought. The prisoner was still secured by rawhide thongs, wrists bound behind his back, ankles hobbled. He was not going anywhere until Parnell decided whether he should live or die.

  Before this journey south, that choice would have weighed heavily upon Clint’s mind. Tonight, after the things he’d done, the men he’d killed, it mattered no more to him than the act of stepping on a cucaracha. Whether that should have concerned him in itself remained a question that he did not care to contemplate.

  Not when he reckoned there was still more killing to be done.

  Clint understood that Pancho Villa’s guards, who had been posted with the stolen herd, would not stand idly by without resistance while the horses were reclaimed. Before he got to that point in his planning, though, he had to plan his next step if Itza-chu could not find the canyon where Zarita claimed that the Aguirre herd was being kept.

  So, one step at a time, and that would guarantee that Parnell faced no risk of dozing off.

  He spent time seeing to his guns, ensuring that the Browning Auto-5 and Peacemaker were fully loaded, extra cartridges secure in the loops around his pistol belt and in his jacket’s pockets. When he’d finished that, Clint drew his hunting knife, tested its cutting edge against his thumb, and reckoned it was sharp enough to see him through the night ahead if things went worse than he was hoping.

  Never mind the odds against eventual success. If Parnell had considered that, he likely never would have left the ranch in Doña Ana County—or, if leaving, would have handed in his resignation first and ridden off alone.

  Now, having pledged his word of honor to retrieve Don Alejandro’s herd from Mexico, Clint had no choice but to proceed and let the chips fall where they may. He might not see the ranch again, or even make it to the Rio Grande, but if he failed, Clint knew his main regret would be from leading Sonya and Dolores to their doom.

  They were so young and should have had their lives laid out in front of them with no storm clouds on the horizon. Losing Paco Yáñez obviously pained Dolores, coming on so close behind her brother’s death, but she was bound to meet hombres in due time.

  Or should if she survived.

  That morbid thought depressed Clint, and he reconsidered having coffee, then decided that he couldn’t stand to drink it cold. At least one of the posse’s caballeros likely had a bottle of tequila in his saddlebag, but none of them were passing it around, intent on staying clearheaded when they eventually faced their enemies.

  Now, if Parnell could just confirm exactly where to find them and the stolen herd, wipe out the nagging fear that they were on a wild-goose chase.

  As if in answer to his thought, a sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching from the northeast reached Clint’s ears. He rose, hefting his shotgun, and the other members of his party closed around him, weapons ready if the rider proved to be an enemy.

  Sighs of relief greeted their recognition of Itza-chu, finally returning from his quest to find the canyon filled with horses that their captive had described. Great Hawk reined up his unshod skewbald pony and dismounted, stroked its neck to calm the animal, and stood before Clint to report.

  “I found it,” he announced, casting a sidelong glance toward where Jesús Zarita sat huddled beneath his saddle blanket. “He was off by h
alf a mile or so.”

  “How many guards?” Clint asked the Mescalero.

  “I saw three,” Itza-chu said. “But if the comadreja was not lying, they increase the number after nightfall.”

  Comadreja translated to “weasel.” Parnell thought it was a fair description of their prisoner, apparently still grappling with the ill effects of last night’s hangover.

  “All right,” Clint told the other members of his team. “We’ll give them half an hour more to change the guards. I don’t want to meet any of them on the trail and start a fight before we’ve seen the herd. For now, just finish packing up. Make sure you don’t leave anything behind.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Dolores closed her saddlebag, buckled its strap, and slid her freshly loaded Winchester into its scabbard. She had already checked the Colt revolvers, one holstered on each side of her saddle horn, and had the pockets of her duster loaded with spare cartridges.

  However many guards Villa had posted on the canyon, she was ready to confront them.

  “Are you frightened?” Sonya asked, walking her varnish roan up to her sister’s snowflake Appaloosa, on the right.

  “Concerned,” Dolores said. “Not frightened.”

  “I am,” Sonya countered. “We’ve come all this way to fight with strangers, and our lives depend on the outcome. Not only our lives, bur our father’s and all others living on the hacienda.”

  “It’s not fair, I grant you,” said Dolores, “but there’s no one else.”

  Sonya switched subjects. Said, “I half expected that Zarita lied to us about the horses, about everything.”

  “He knows the penalty and does not have the courage,” her twin replied. “A so-called man like that, he’s brave with los viejos, women, children, if he has a gun and friends behind him. Otherwise . . .”

  Dolores let it go at that and spat into the sand.

  “What will become of him?” asked Sonya.

  “Clint promised him freedom if he spoke the truth, after we found the herd. If it were up to me, I’d treat him as a mad dog running in the street.”