Terror Trail

by Lyle Brandt

  “Just kill him?”

  “He would do the same to us if he were armed,” Dolores answered. “And our backs were turned.”

  Sonya considered that and nodded, did not contradict her sister’s words. “When will it end?” she asked.

  Dolores, after wondering the same thing of her own accord, had a response prepared. “When we are safe at home,” she said, “together with as many of the horses as we can recover. When Papa sees us and smiles upon us for a job well done.”

  “Do you suppose he still remembers how to smile, hermana?” Sonya asked.

  “I hope he will,” Dolores said. Sometimes, discussing it with Sonya, it felt as if she were arguing with her own mind, trying to smother stubborn doubts that would not die.

  “But since he lost Eduardo . . .”

  “Do not speak of that tonight,” Dolores interrupted. “We all lost Eduardo.”

  “But his only son . . .”

  “We are his only children now,” Dolores said. “He did not raise us to be wallflowers.”

  “He did not raise us to be men,” Sonya replied. “Only to mimic them when there is no alternative.”

  “If you are softening, hermana—”

  “No!” hissed Sonya, eyes flashing, voice lowered so that it would not reach another’s ears. “I only meant . . .”

  “Perhaps you ought to marry Clint,” Dolores said, one corner of her mouth forming a half smile.

  “Now you’re talking nonsense!” Sonya said.

  “Am I?” The smile widened. “You think I am the only one who’s seen the two of you together.”

  “We’ve done nothing inappropriate.”

  “But not from lack of wanting to. On your side, anyway,” Dolores said.

  The dusk had deepened too much for her to see Sonya blush.

  After another moment Sonya asked her, “Who else knows? Not Papa?”

  “Give him some credit, Sonya. He is not un tonto.”

  “I would never say that he’s a fool.” Her shoulders sagged, and Sonya’s hands covered her face as she muttered, “¡Dios mío!”

  “Well, of course he knows,” Dolores teased her twin. “He sees all, understands all.”

  “Do you still believe that?” Sonya queried. “Truly? Even since Paco . . .”

  “He’s gone,” Dolores said. “No one can change that.”

  “And you will not forget him,” Sonya offered. “But you will find someone else in time.”

  The smile Dolores turned upon her sister now had a chill to it.

  “Do we have time?” she asked Sonya. “Perhaps you should not sit here wasting what is left of yours.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The saddle blanket that his captors had draped over him supplied Jesús Zarita with the cover he required, trying to reach the razor hidden in his right foot’s stocking. Still, it was an awkward position, hands still bound behind him, working up a sweat despite the chill of night on the high desert, straining every muscle in his torso as he tried to reach his boot.

  At first, Zarita feared that it would be impossible. He was not a contortionist, not double-jointed like the young muchacha he had seen performing at a circus sideshow in Nogales two years earlier, before he had joined Pancho Villa’s band. In fact, she had not been that young, rather a supple beauty ripe for picking by a man who knew his way around mujeres, and Zaria had imagined all the things that she could do in bed if motivated properly. He knew that every hombre in the audience had wanted her, watching the way she tied herself in knots, did splits and handstands, undulated on the stage as if she were a serpent.

  Sadly, he had been distracted by a tent serving tequila and had drowned his momentary lust in alcohol, but Jesús still remembered her and wished he had her talent now.

  If only he could somehow reach his boot. Was that so much to ask?

  It would require twisting his torso at the waist, he understood, while simultaneously lifting up his knees. The second set of rawhide thongs binding his ankles made the task more difficult, but in his mind’s eye it did not appear impossible.

  If only he were not an aging drunkard who had let himself decline to a condition where his muscles sometimes failed him lifting heavy weights in camp, or even mounting to the saddle of his horse after a night of drinking in some low cantina. Even so, what hombre worthy of the name could not reach his own ankle if his life depended on it?

  Me, Zarita thought. Pathetic creature that I am.

  His job was doubly complicated by the saddle blanket draping him from shoulders to the scuffed toes of his boots. If he disturbed it in his struggling, then it would be obvious to all his enemies that he was striving to escape. In that case, one of them would surely summon others or, if it were one of the Apaches, simply cut Zarita’s throat or split his skull and spill his liquor-sodden brains onto the soil.

  “¡Dios ayúdame!” he whispered to himself, but even as he spoke those words, Zarita knew that God was not about to help him, even though he bore the holy Savior’s name. Rendered unworthy by his life of sin and crime, Jesús knew he would have to help himself.

  It finally occurred to him that he must first slump over to his left side on the ground, keeping the blanket snug around him to conceal his movements underneath it. Lying down, as if trying to sleep, he might be able to raise his feet and knees while groping for his right boot top, striving to dip his fingers down inside it. Yet another problem was the numbness spreading through his hands and forearms from the thongs around his wrists, and stiffness in his shoulders from remaining bound for hours.

  Still . . .

  There was no other option, even if Zarita had to dislocate a shoulder in the process. If that happened, would the arm be useless to him, or could he succeed, retrieve the razor from his sock, and then snap the shoulder back in place before he went to work slicing his bonds?

  Collapsing to his left was not as difficult as Jesús had imagined, although his sombrero snagged against the bank of the arroyo as he slumped. A tilting of his head kept it from falling off entirely, and a sudden cramp knifed through the left side of Zarita’s neck, shooting pain through his trapezius and down beneath his shoulder blade. Clenching his teeth, Zarita breathed slowly until the pain began to ebb and he could move his arms again.

  Now to begin the final series of contortions that would either set him free or end his life.

  * * *

  * * *

  Kuruk, Nantan Lupan, and Itza-chu sat on the ground together, singing softly to their Mescalero ancestors. Each tribesman held a different image in his mind, of forebears lost to passing time or violence, along with thoughts for gods whom they revered.

  Kuruk particularly sang to Shotokunungwa, god of sky, lightning, war, and the hunt, and to Mosau’u, god of death, the underworld, and fire. They seemed the most appropriate of deities for this night when his life might end, and he beseeched them both for strength to face his enemies with honor, striking fear into them as they tried to bring him down.

  He also kept in mind an image of his grandfather, Calian—meaning “warrior” in the white man’s tongue—who fought beside Victorio of the Mimbreño clan until their last stand against mexicano soldiers at the Tres Castillos battle in Chihuahua, in October 1880. Over the span of two days’ fighting, sixty-two bold warriors fell, along with sixteen women and children, another sixty-eight women and children captured and sold into slavery. It was a grim defeat but still recalled with pride by Mescalero men and boys.

  Kuruk did not fear death, and he assumed that Itza-chu and Nantan Lupan felt the same. Whatever happened to them next was written in the stars, known to their long-departed ancestors beforehand, and was nothing Mescalero men had not experienced before. The fact that none of them were married or had children lent a certain freedom to their enterprise, an almost cavalier adventure before they returned—should they survive the tr
ek—and settled down as honored members of their tribe.

  For those who made it home—and those who died along the way as well—the record of their deeds would live in song and stories, suitably embellished over time, until they gained heroic status. Maidens would vie for their affection, yearn to bear their sons. From young bucks seeking an adventure, they would graduate into respected members of the tribe. The living would have proved themselves for all time, and the slain would be revered.

  In other circumstances, Kuruk might have swallowed a peyote bud or two, hoping for visions, but he needed all his wits about him for the fight ahead. He had no doubt that the villistas would resist any attempt to liberate the stolen herd, and there was no point in attempting to negotiate with them. The quickest way of ending opposition was by killing them to the last man, along with any reinforcements their bandido leader sent to safeguard his four-legged loot.

  How many gunmen would their party face in all? Kuruk had only estimates to work from. Thirty men or more had raided the Aguirre hacienda, and the leader of their posse, Clint Parnell, believed that Pancho Villa had more fighters in reserve at his base camp. Imagining a number did Kuruk no good, but only played to his anxiety. It would be better, he decided, to face danger as it came, one pistolero at a time.

  And leave them dying on the battlefield.

  Thinking of which, they already had one close by.

  Villa’s cohort had led them to the canyon where Aguirre’s stolen horses were confined. For that, gringo Parnell had promised the villista his freedom, but Kuruk had made no such promise and he seriously doubted that releasing the bandido was a sound idea. To his suspicious mind, the captive was more likely to rejoin his former comrades, angling to save himself from Pancho Villa’s wrath, and lead them in pursuit of the Aguirre party on its flight back to New Mexico.

  But he could not do that if he were dead.

  With that in mind, Kuruk knew he could not simply rise up and slay the prisoner without infuriating Clint Parnell and possibly the twin Aguirre sisters, too. There must be some excuse for killing him. If he escaped and tried to seize a weapon, for example, no one could complain that he was slain unnecessarily.

  Frowning in concentration even as his song wound down, Kuruk glanced over toward the prisoner and found him lying on his side beneath the saddle blanket someone had tossed over him for warmth. The tilt of his sombrero hid the outlaw’s face from view, but he was clearly moving underneath the blanket. Trying for a bit of comfort on the stony ground, perhaps, or else . . .

  Rising, Kuruk strode out across the dry arroyo toward their prisoner, with one hand dropping to the decorated handle of his tomahawk.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sonya found Clint checking cinches on his dapple gray’s saddle. He had his back turned toward her as she led her varnish roan to join him, but he heard her coming, turned to face her as he slid his Browning Auto-5 into its saddle boot.

  “All set?” he asked her, with an almost wistful smile.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Sonya replied.

  “I wish there was some other way around this but . . . you know . . .” He let whatever else he’d meant to say trail off into thin air.

  “It can’t be helped,” she said. “We both made promises.”

  “How is your sister holding up?” Clint asked.

  Sonya knew that he was referring to the death of Paco Yáñez, though the lost vaquero’s name remained unspoken.

  “She’ll survive,” Sonya replied.

  “I hope we all will,” Clint amended.

  “Yes, but just in case . . .”

  She paused a beat too long, perhaps. It put a cautious frown on Parnell’s face.

  “What is it, Sonya?” he inquired.

  Though normally loquacious, Sonya suddenly had difficulty forming words. It was embarrassing. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You know—that is, I hope you know . . .”

  “Know what?” Clint urged her, with a sudden softness in his voice that was not often heard around the hacienda in his dealings with the hired hands.

  Sonya blinked, swallowed, and took the plunge. “Know how I feel about you. How I’ve come to care about you over time.”

  Her cheeks were flaming now. Sonya was thankful that the dusk concealed her fevered blush.

  Clint stared at her with rapt attention. For a moment, Sonya could not tell if he was shocked, humiliated, even mortified. If she’d surprised him, how would he react? Parnell’s first loyalty was obviously to her father and the rancho. Would the pressure of her revelation make his working life untenable? Would he feel driven to reject her out of hand, perhaps even resign and travel on, riding out of her life for good?

  Did any of that matter if they rode to meet their deaths tonight?

  She was surprised when Clint moved closer to her, one hand raised to lightly touch her arm beneath the drape of her serape. “Sonya,” he began.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” she blurted out. “And please forgive my speaking out of turn. Forget this ever happened and—”

  “I don’t want to forget it,” Parnell said.

  “¿No?” she said, then quickly translated.

  Clint shook he head. “Truth is, I care about you, too, and not so much as Alejandro’s daughter. Working for him, though, I was afraid to say. How it would sound and look to him.”

  Sonya blinked away a startled tear, before it had a chance to reach her cheek. “My papa loves you like a son,” she said. “You know that.”

  “But I’m not his son, and he just lost the only one he had,” Parnell replied. “What would he think, at a time like that, if I tried keeping company with you? Suppose he took me for a leech trying to batten on his family and fortune?”

  “He would never think that,” Sonya answered earnestly. “And should you not be more concerned with what I think?”

  “I would have been,” Clint said, smiling, “but you just told me.”

  More heat in Sonya’s cheeks. “Forgive me if I’m acting like a mujer desenfrenada.”

  Parnell laughed at that, softly, without drawing attention from the other riders making ready for the raid ahead. “Nobody would mistake you for a wanton woman,” he assured her. “Or at least they’d never say it around me, if they wanted to keep their teeth.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “So, I have not repulsed you, then?” she asked him not quite teasingly.

  “Not even close to that,” Clint said. “You give me hope. What some might call reason to stay alive.”

  “I think we should not kiss now,” Sonya wistfully replied. “Not with the others . . .”

  “No. But I’ll be looking forward to it,” Clint said.

  “As will I,” she said, and slowly turned away.

  What some might call reason to stay alive, he’d said. And while his words lifted her spirits, Sonya knew that was the essence of their problem now.

  Not what her father thought of Clint as a potential fiancé, but whether either one of them would manage to survive the night.

  * * *

  * * *

  Villa’s Base Camp

  Pancho Villa was intent on finishing his nightly meal—carne asada, enchiladas, rice and beans, with a cerveza chaser—when a cry went up from lookouts on the camp’s perimeter. “¡Un jinete entra!”

  A rider’s coming in.

  The call put Villa’s men in motion, rushing toward the compound’s eastern side, drawing and cocking weapons as they went. Pancho himself sat still, a solid rock of seeming calm in the confusion, though his right hand moved a fraction closer to the pistol on his hip.

  A wise man never let himself be taken unawares.

  The new arrival had to pass through ranks of armed villistas, offering his name to several before he finally dismounted, ringed by pointed guns, and walked his weary horse toward Vi
lla’s place beside a separate campfire. Before arriving there, he took off his sombrero, sleeved a sheen of perspiration from his brow despite the high desert’s nocturnal chill, and let the men surrounding him direct him to his goal.

  “Señor Villa?” the stranger asked, ducking his head as if he were a salesman come to foist unwanted goods upon the gathering.

  Villa nodded. Inquired, “Who are you?”

  “Con tu permiso, jefe. Rafael Rayón.”

  “You don’t need my permission,” Villa said. “I did not name you.”

  Rayón seemed unsure whether that was a joke at his expense. He flicked a smile toward Villa, bobbed his head again, worried the brim of his sombrero with a pair of nervous hands.

  “Well?” Villa snapped at him. “What brings you here?”

  “Señor Zapata’s order, jefe.”

  “Ah. Emiliano.” Villa’s smile was genuine. “And how much longer must I wait to have the pleasure of his company?”

  Rayón swallowed a lump that had appeared from nowhere in his throat. “Perdóname, Señor Villa,” he replied. His soft voice fell somewhere between a gasp and a whisper.

  “Speak up, hijo,” Villa ordered. “Why should you require my pardon?”

  “Señor Zapata sends the message that he cannot meet you as arranged. He has encountered various obstructions on the way and is returning to Morelos. “Con sincero arrepentimiento, jefe.”

  Villa laid his supper plate aside, forgotten, rising to his feet as anger surged inside him. “His sincere regrets, indeed! What do they mean to me, when I have fourteen hundred horses he agreed to purchase? Eh? What do you say to that?”

  “Nada, señor,” Rayón answered. “He sends apologies and understands that you must be trastornado.”

  “Upset!” Villa was nearly shouting now. “He makes a promise, then reneges on it and robs me of mucho dinero. ‘Upset’ won’t begin to cover it, muchacho.”