by Ralph Cotton
‘‘I brought Sonny and Koch back,’’ he said. ‘‘I also brought in the old monk and the girl who cleans the cantina.’’
‘‘What about the kid?’’ asked Prew. ‘‘Is he dead?’’
‘‘No,’’ said Cherokee. ‘‘He showed up on his own. Claims he’s fit and ready to ride. I told Loden you’d deal with him when we get back.’’
‘‘Well, hell,’’ said Prew, ‘‘if he’s back in the saddle, I expect the rest doesn’t matter.’’
‘‘Sonny and Koch had my cousin’s horse when I caught up to them,’’ said Cherokee, giving him a look. ‘‘I expect to get to the bottom of it when we get back to Esperanza.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Prew, ‘‘you bet we will.’’ He nodded toward the coffeepot still sitting beside the campfire. ‘‘Pour yourself a cup and carry it with you. We’re moving out.’’
‘‘Moving out?’’ Cherokee gave him a look. ‘‘I just killed two horses and been stuck in the saddle nearly twenty hours getting here.’’
‘‘Then pour yourself two cups and carry them along,’’ said Prew with no sympathy. ‘‘We’re still moving out.’’
A moment later, with a steaming cup of coffee in his gloved hand, Cherokee rode alongside Prew at the head of the column of riders. They rode until noon, still following the same trail they’d taken outside of Esperanza. The trail led east, in the direction of the American border. But upon reaching a fork in the trail, Prew turned his horse southwest and rode on. Beside him Cherokee said with a puzzled expression, ‘‘Hold on, boss! We’re going the wrong way.’’
Prew gave him a smug grin. ‘‘Maybe you are, Cherokee, but I know exactly where I’m going.’’
Cherokee looked back, seeing the confused expressions on the faces of the men behind them. Turning back to Prew he said, ‘‘Want to let me in on what you’re up to? Or is this a secret?’’
‘‘Not a secret now.’’ Prew gazed straight ahead as he spoke. ‘‘We’re not going on any dry run across the border, Cherokee.’’
‘‘Oh? Then where are we going?’’ Cherokee had to work at keeping his voice from sounding a little sharp and testy. He didn’t like having to squeeze information out of Prew this way.
Prew’s smug grin widened. Without looking around at Cherokee, he said in a flat tone, ‘‘We’re headed for Plaza Fuerte.’’
‘‘Plaza Fuerte? It’s a two-day ride out of our way if we’re going to make a dry run across the border,’’ said Cherokee.
‘‘Forget the dry run,’’ said Prew. ‘‘We never was going to do that. We’ve always been headed for Plaza Fuerte.’’
‘‘But there’s nothing for us there but federales. It’s their main encampment west of Mexico City! It has been for the past year or two.’’ Cherokee looked stunned. He almost stopped his horse. But thinking better of it he nudged the animal forward and asked, ‘‘What the hell are we going there for?’’
‘‘How does gold sound to you?’’ Prew asked in a calm quiet voice.
‘‘Gold, you say?’’ Cherokee’s eyes lit up. Looking back, he saw a couple of the men start to ride forward to find out what was going on. But he waved them back into ranks with a gloved hand, then said to Prew, ‘‘Gold has always held a warm and special place in my heart.’’ He seemed to consider it, then asked, ‘‘I take it you are talking about stealing gold? Not digging it up out of the ground or anything as foolish as that?’’
‘‘Please,’’ Prew said with a disdainful sidelong glance. ‘‘Do you see picks or shovels in my gear?’’
Cherokee looked closer at Prew as if to see if he was serious. ‘‘But Plaza Fuerte is always crawling with soldiers. We’ll have the fight of our lives. How is el capitán going to feel about us doing this?’’
‘‘I’ve got a hunch the soldiers won’t be there when we arrive,’’ said Prew. ‘‘As far as Captain Murella . . .’’ He shrugged, unconcerned, and let his words trail off. He gazed ahead as if he had nothing more to say on the matter.
After a moment of studying Prew’s profile, a knowing look came to Cherokee’s face, followed by a sly grin. ‘‘Ah, I get it. This is all something you and el capitán cooked up between yas.’’
‘‘We decided why keep robbing army trains, having to lug all those heavy crates around,’’ Prew said. ‘‘What we all need is a good strong dose of Mexican gold in our saddlebags.’’
‘‘Yeah, I always found that it makes a horse run straighter,’’ said Cherokee, suddenly jubilant. He added in a tone filled with awe, ‘‘The Federal Bank and Gold Exchange of Mexico.’’
‘‘Yep, El Federal Bank y el Intercambio de Oro de México, ’’ Prew replied. ‘‘It is a big one.’’
‘‘Big?’’ said Cherokee. ‘‘It’s bigger than any job I ever dreamed of in my life.’’
‘‘El capitán said the government moved the bulk of their gold from Mexico City to Plaza Fuerte last year. Said they thought it would be safer with so many troops always there.’’
‘‘Well, I for one applaud their decision,’’ Cherokee said in a mocking tone. ‘‘Man! You and el capitán have come up with a good one.’’ He shook his head at the idea of running his fingers through ringing gold coins. ‘‘He gets the troops out of town, we clean out that big ole bank, and split it up with Murella when he comes to hunt down the thieves who did it!’’
‘‘Something like that,’’ said Prew. ‘‘I figured you’d be interested.’’ He pointed at a clearing along the trail ahead. ‘‘As soon as we get up there, we’ll stop and let everybody else in on it.’’
Cherokee looked back at the others. ‘‘Why so many of us? This being a setup, we could have done it with half this many.’’
‘‘But then it might begin to look like a setup.’’ Prew gave Cherokee a close look and said, ‘‘Don’t start getting greedy on me, Jake. I need you to be my right-hand man, now that White has let me down. Are you up to it?’’
‘‘Hell, you know I’m up to it, boss,’’ said Cherokee. ‘‘I was just thinking out loud is all.’’ Considering what Prew had said, he added, ‘‘You’re right. Too few men would make it look like a setup.’’
‘‘Leave it all up to me and el capitán,’’ said Prew. ‘‘Believe me, we’ve thought of everything.’’
‘‘I’m with you all the way, boss,’’ said Cherokee. ‘‘You do the pointing, I’ll do the shooting.’’
‘‘That’s the kind of talk I like to hear,’’ Prew said, turning to face the trail ahead.
When they reached the clearing along the trail, Cherokee motioned for everyone to gather up beneath the overhanging branches of a tall white oak tree. As they settled, Prew looked from face to face, silently saying their names to himself. Sitting closest to him were four gunmen from Texas, Clifford Elvey, Ethan Crenshaw, Bud Stakes and Bud’s half brother, Dan Farr.
Cherokee Jake called out, ‘‘All right, everybody listen up. We’ve made a change in plans. But it’s one I think you’re all going to like.’’
As Cherokee spoke, Prew continued looking from man to man. Off to the right sat Hemp Knot Russell, Cur Dog Kerr, Matt Harkens and Stu Wakeland. To the left sat Indian Frank Beeker and Niger Elmsly, an English outlaw who’d fled the London countryside ahead of the law.
‘‘Men,’’ Prew called out, ‘‘Cherokee is talking about a job that Captain Murella and I came up with that is going to make all of us rich.’’
Cherokee sat back comfortably in his saddle and listened to Prew explain to the men what he himself had heard only moments ago. Yet he took on a wise and confident look, one that purported to say to the men that he’d known about the big bank job all along.
The ranger hid the bag of explosives inside a shaded stand of piñon beneath a low rocky overhang. Looking around closely to make sure no eyes had been on him, he walked back to the horses and stepped up into his saddle. Now to make some time, he told himself. He knew the backcountry from the many times he’d tracked men in this area. A day and a half head start didn’t di
scourage him. He’d trailed desperate outlaws who’d known he was coming for them. Prew and his men wouldn’t be in that kind of hurry. If Cherokee Jake can catch up to the gang, so can I, Sam told himself.
With one of the horses always at rest on a lead rope behind him, the ranger rode diagonally over the hill country, nonstop. He took trails that had been abandoned so long they’d become little more than deer and elk paths. At night when it grew dark and dangerous on the high trails, he did not stop. He only slowed the animals’ pace, and rode on.
The next morning, with the sun already making its ascent, he found the day-old hoofprints of several riders. Curious, he stopped the big Appaloosa at the fork in the main trail and watched the prints veer off to the right. Following the tracks led him to the same tree where Prew and his men had gathered up before heading to Plaza Fuerte.
‘‘So, you’re not even headed for the border, are you, Desmond Prew?’’ he murmured. ‘‘I knew a dry run didn’t sound like your style.’’
He sat silently for a moment, gazing out along the trail Prew and his men had taken, in his mind drawing images of what towns he knew lay in that direction. ‘‘Nothing that way but more federales,’’ he said as if discussing it with Prew. ‘‘But then, lately, some of your best friends are federales, aren’t they?’’
He nudged the Appaloosa away from the tree. Instead of turning back to the main trail, he took a thin path into the woods and followed it for over an hour until he reached a point where a wide swift running body of water lay stretched before him. ‘‘Río Perdido,’’ he whispered to himself.
Here was where he would gain ground on the mercenaries. Stepping down from the saddle, he prepared the horses, his weapons and his meager supplies for the trip across. He was certain that Prew and his men weren’t about to swim Lost River. Not unless they’re running and desperate, he reminded himself.
When he’d finished with the animals and his guns, he took off most of his clothes and rolled his boots up in his trousers. He put the trousers and boots inside his shirt, buttoned it and tied the sleeves around it. Along with his guns he put the bundle inside his canvas duster, wrapped it and tied it with the rope he carried hanging from his saddle horn. He hefted the bundle up onto his shoulder.
Wearing only his summer johns, he climbed back into the saddle, lead rope in hand, and said to the Appaloosa, ‘‘I know you don’t like swimming any more than I do, Black Pot. But here goes.’’
He nudged the Appaloosa down the short cutbank into the water. He did not tie the lead rope around his saddle horn and take a chance on losing both horses if something went wrong. Instead he wrapped the lead rope one turn around his hand, so he could let go if he had to. He led the spare horse behind him, feeling it resist only slightly before stepping forward into the rushing river.
Letting the Appaloosa have its way, he turned sidelong on the saddle and kept his canvas bundle high and dry. When he’d gotten far enough out into the water to know the paint horse would not turn back, he let the lead rope slip from his hand. The animal drifted apart from the Appaloosa but still swam in the same direction.
The two animals floated and bobbed and swam forward even as the current swept them along sideways. The ranger let himself slip back from the saddle to give the Appaloosa less weight on the center of its back. Keeping his clothes and guns raised high in his right hand, he hooked his left hand into the strap of his saddlebags and let himself bob along, most of his weight off of the stallion’s rump.
When he felt the stallion’s hooves find the first purchase on the solid bottom, he pulled himself into the saddle and lowered his dry bundle onto his lap as the animal rose higher out of the water with each step.
‘‘Good work, Black Pot,’’ he said, patting the stallion’s wet neck as it plodded up onto rocky dry land. Looking downstream he saw the paint horse step out of the water, shaking itself off. Turning the stallion, he rode down to where the paint had already found itself a clump of wild grass and begun nipping at it. Reaching down and taking the wet lead rope, he led the horse out of the sun to a place where he stepped down and sorted out his clothes, guns and supplies.
The canvas duster had taken no more water than it would have from a light summer rain shower. Yet he inspected his rifle and Colt before slipping the pistol into his dry holster. The rifle he would leave out and carry in his hand until the sun dried his saddle boot.
He loosened the wet saddle, swung it and the dripping saddle blanket off the Appaloosa’s back and laid them out in the sun to dry. Stripping out of his wet johns, he wrung them between his hands and laid them on top of clumps of tall wild grass next to the saddle.
He stooped down against the rough trunk of a large chokecherry tree and rested both himself and the animals until the saddle blanket and his johns were only damp. Then he gathered the damp saddle and blanket and swapped them over to the paint horse. He pulled on his damp johns and the rest of his clothes, his dry boots, and stepped into the saddle. In moments he was back on the trail.
Stopping only long enough to rest, feed and water the horses and himself, by late evening in the waning light of day he picked up the group of many hoofprints again on a wide dusty trail. Beneath him the paint, although trail-wary, stepped back and forth restlessly. On the lead rope beside him, Black Pot did the same.
‘‘Easy now,’’ the ranger said, patting the paint’s sweaty withers. ‘‘You’ve done good.’’ As he spoke under his breath, Black Pot crowded in close beside him, appearing jealous of the dun. ‘‘You’ve both done good,’’ Sam said, patting the Appaloosa’s damp muzzle. He corrected himself as if the animals understood his words.
Looking out along the flat meandering trail before him, he saw the large rise of trail hanging in the hot evening air. ‘‘Well, Desmond Prew, we’ll soon be close enough to shake hands.’’ He nudged the paint forward. ‘‘But I doubt if we will.’’
Instead of making a camp for the night, he swigged tepid water from a canteen, poured the rest into his hat and gave each animal a drink. Then he rode on.
Taking advantage of the silvery light of a full moon, he kept an eye on the trail dust until it settled and the glow of a campfire rose up in its place. Keeping the firelight to his left, he traveled steadily throughout the night until by the first glow of dawn the campfire had fallen back over his left shoulder.
‘‘We’re ahead of them,’’ he whispered thankfully to the animals. In the near distance he saw the shadowy purple hill line overlooking Plaza Fuerte. ‘‘Let’s get on up there where we can watch them ride past,’’ he said, stopping and stepping down from his saddle. He quickly reached down, loosened the cinch on the paint’s belly, and swung the saddle over onto the Appaloosa. When he’d changed bridles and slipped the lead rope over the paint’s sweaty muzzle, he mounted Black Pot and rode on.
PART 3
Chapter 16
By midmorning, the ranger stood on a cliff overlooking the town of Plaza Fuerte on his right and the long stretch of dusty flatlands off to his left. He’d arrived there and spent the past hour lying on the ground in the shade of overhanging juniper and wild laurel. At a thin trickle of water beneath a rock ledge the horses drank and grazed hungrily on clumps of wild grass.
Rested, Sam pulled his telescope open and raised it to his eye. ‘‘Good morning, Mr. Prew,’’ he murmured, centering on Prew and Cherokee Jake Slattery in the lens before taking a good look at the rest of the riders. He watched Prew’s lips move in the wavering field lens, then saw the column come to a halt as Cherokee Jake rode back and spoke to the men.
‘‘Time to get ready, fellows,’’ Sam said under his breath, watching most of the men check to make sure they had bandannas hanging around their necks. A few reached into their dusters or saddlebags, pulled out their bandannas and tied them on, leaving them draped down their chests for the time being.
The ranger was about to watch a crime take place, and for the first time in his life; he realized there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He
knew he was out of his jurisdiction, but jurisdiction had nothing to do with it. If he’d thought it would help, he would have already ridden into Plaza Fuerte and warned the federales. But knowing the relationship between Prew and Captain Luis Murella, he was certain the only thanks he would get would be a bullet in his back as he rode away.
‘‘This one is all yours, Mexico,’’ he said to himself as if talking to the wide endless land. He scanned the lens over the men until he saw Thomas Russell and Braden Kerr talking to Cherokee Jake. ‘‘But Hemp Knot and Cur Dog are all mine.’’
On the flatlands, Prew waited until Cherokee returned to the front of the column. Having heard Cherokee and the two gunmen raise their voices to one another, Prew asked, ‘‘What are those two bellyaching about now?’’
‘‘Same as always since they heard what the ranger said about giving you your horse and you turning them over to him,’’ said Cherokee. ‘‘They’re both too spooked to know what they’re doing. If you ask me, I’d say give them both the boot before we ride in here and get all that gold. Why share it with a couple of yellow—’’
‘‘Shhh. Hush now,’’ Prew said, cutting him off. ‘‘I didn’t ask you.’’ He looked back along the men and saw Russell and Kerr gazing expectantly at him. In a lowered voice, he said, ‘‘Even a couple of saddle tramps like Russell and Kerr have some value.’’
Cherokee smoldered at being hushed like an unrulychild. But he held it in check and said, ‘‘If there’s value there I guess I missed seeing it.’’
Prew grinned. ‘‘That’s the difference between being the segundo, like you, and being numero uno, like me,’’ he said, tapping a thumb on his chest.
Cherokee saw it as Prew flexing his muscle, reminding him that he was only second in charge. All right, Cherokee told himself, he knew his place here. He didn’t need reminding.