by Ralph Cotton
‘‘What do you putas want?’’ one of the towns-women called out to the dark shadowy figures.
‘‘We have no way home,’’ one of the whores replied, holding a blanket wrapped around her naked breasts. ‘‘El capitán told us we would have transportation.’’
Dark laughter rose and fell. ‘‘As you can see, el capitán is not here,’’ the same woman called out.
A farmer in his wide straw sombrero stepped up beside the woman, holding a large rock in his hand.
‘‘Now it is time you pay for disgracing us with your nakedness, your drinking and your fornication on our streets!’’ he called out to the whores.
But as he raised the rock threateningly, Sabio, Caridad and the two lawmen rode in out of the darkness and Sabio shouted in authoritative tone, ‘‘Jorge! People! What are you doing to these women?’’
Seeing Sabio, the man dropped his stone and stood looking ashamed of himself. The other townsfolk did the same. ‘‘The mercenaries are gone, Padre,’’ Jorge said, looking down at the ground and only facing Sabio with quick glances.
‘‘Jorge, Jorge.’’ Sabio shook his head patiently. ‘‘Why must I keep telling you, I am no longer a priest?’’
Shrugging, Jorge said, ‘‘You are still my padre.’’ He swept an arm toward the others. ‘‘You are always our padre.’’
‘‘What can I do?’’ Sabio said to the ranger before swinging down from his saddle and walking over to the farmer. ‘‘If I am your padre, tell me what is going on here.’’
‘‘They have left these putas stranded with us,’’ Jorge said, gesturing toward the women who stood in the dark with their heads lowered.
‘‘Oh?’’ Sabio looked at the whores, then back to Jorge and the other townsfolk. ‘‘Then, I say make them welcome here until I return and can help them find a way home.’’ He turned and smiled at the whores.
‘‘But we have never allowed these sort of women to live and practice their profession in Esperanza,’’ Jorge said quietly. ‘‘I don’t think we can do what you ask.’’
Sabio bent down and picked up the stone he’d dropped and said grimly, ‘‘Then who will cast the first stone? Certainly I cannot!’’ He looked all around at the gathering, seeing Louisa look down to avoid his eyes. ‘‘Can you, Jorge? Are you an innocent, without sin?’’ He held the rock out for him, but Jorge folded his hands, refusing to take it.
‘‘No, I am not without sin, as you know, Padre,’’ Jorge said. ‘‘We thought this was what we should do. Forgive us, por favor.’’
‘‘I forgive you, of course, even though I am no longer a padre,’’ said Sabio. Making a quick sign of the cross toward the man, he added, ‘‘And I pray God will forgive you.’’ He looked around at the townspeople. ‘‘I forgive each and every one of you.’’ Turning toward the whores he said, ‘‘And I will forgive each of you, personally. As soon as I return from my journey with these two American lawmen, I will hear your sins, and we will spend some time together—’’
‘‘Sabio,’’ Caridad said from atop the horse she shared with Jefferies, ‘‘we must go. There is much we have to do to prepare for the trail.’’
The four traveled throughout the night and the following day, stopping only long enough to rest and water the horses and themselves. They carefully stayed back far enough to avoid being seen by Prew and his men, at the same time keeping their trail dust in sight. Before leaving Esperanza Jefferies purchased a horse and a tough little donkey from Jorge. Caridad rode the horse. Sam secured the leather supply bag of dynamite and grenades to the donkey’s back with lengths of rope.
When they arrived at the border trail, the four riders made camp for the night. The next morning the two lawmen headed out before dawn, leaving Sabio and Caridad to await their return. The following morning as they broke camp and prepared for the trail, Jefferies felt both of his battered cheeks and said, ‘‘You might think it sounds foolish, but I believe just being around Sabio has caused me to heal quicker.’’
Sam looked at him. ‘‘Is this Sabio the priest or Sabio the brujo we’re talking about?’’
‘‘I know he’s a hard one to figure out,’’ said Jefferies. ‘‘But it’s a fact that he stopped me from bleeding to death and took out the bullet with his bare hands. I saw it with my own eyes.’’
‘‘Not to cast aspersions,’’ said Sam, ‘‘but there are Hindus on the other side of the world who have been doing that sort of thing for hundreds of years.’’
‘‘Holy men?’’ Jefferies said.
‘‘Some say they are.’’
‘‘Then that only proves my point,’’ said Jefferies. ‘‘If they are holy men, then why isn’t Sabio too?’’
‘‘I never said he’s not,’’ Sam replied. ‘‘I believe there are powers greater than what we understand. But since you saw and felt that power firsthand as you did, I suppose it’s only natural that you believe it stronger than I might.’’
‘‘I see what you mean,’’ said Jefferies. ‘‘It’s easier to believe something is real once you’ve held it in your hand.’’
‘‘Yep,’’ said Sam. ‘‘But all that aside, I expect there is something holy about saving a life, regardless if a man does it with his bare hands or with a tray full of surgical instruments.’’
‘‘What do you make of Sabio?’’ Jefferies asked, keeping watch on the distant rise of dust as they neared the border.
‘‘He’s a man born with extraordinary gifts,’’ Sam replied, gazing ahead. ‘‘Neither he nor the rest of the world understood them or knew what to do with them. The church leaders saw his power and tried to use it to prove their own beliefs. But they expected Sabio to be perfect, and the man is far from it. He thought he had to be perfect too.’’
‘‘None of us are perfect,’’ said Jefferies.
‘‘But because Sabio thought he had to be, every time he fell he thought God was punishing him, taking away his gift.’’ Sam shook his head. ‘‘Now he goes from thinking one day that he has his gift back, stronger than ever, to thinking the next day that he’s lost it for good.’’
‘‘What exactly is his gift?’’ Jefferies asked. ‘‘I know he can stop bleeding. But what else is it? What is this power?’’
‘‘I expect he’d have to be the one to tell you what it is,’’ Sam replied. ‘‘It’s all about faith somehow. I expect if he really knew what it is, he wouldn’t be so tortured by it.’’
Jefferies shook his head. ‘‘So, the believers, the faithful in Esperanza whose lives he’s touched, still call him padre.’’
‘‘And the ones who don’t believe, or who have no faith in anything or anybody, call him a brujo— a witch.’’
‘‘What do you call him, Ranger?’’ Jefferies asked.
‘‘I call him what he called himself the day I met him,’’ the ranger said. ‘‘He’s Sabio Tonto, the wise fool.’’
At midmorning the next day, they crossed the border and rode toward the badlands station and water stop at Choking Wells. Five miles from the water stop they watched the dust settle and knew Prew and his men had stopped. ‘‘They’ve ridden down onto the flatlands to Choking Wells,’’ Sam said. Motioning toward a mesa rising up ahead of them, he added, ‘‘There’s where we want to be for now. If we ride about halfway up we can look down on every move they make.’’
The two of them stopped. ‘‘I’ll take the cut-in connectors, go find a place along the lines and wire the army camp,’’ Jefferies said. ‘‘They’ve got to be warned.’’ As he spoke, he sidled up to the donkey, rummaged through the leather supply bag and came out with the telegraph cut-ins.
Looking at the connectors and the coil of wire in Jefferies’ hand, Sam said, ‘‘I’ve got a feeling you’re going to find the wire has been cut between Choking Wells and the army camp.’’
‘‘I’ve got to try.’’ Jefferies reached back and shoved the connectors into his saddlebags.
‘‘I know,’’ said Sam. ‘‘When you’re finished, follow my
trail up. I’ll be waiting at the end of it.’’ With no further discussion, they turned their horses in opposite directions and rode away.
Chapter 24
From a rocky perch high up on the side of the mesa wall, Sam watched the Choking Wells water station through his telescope. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. A thousand yards east of the station, three of Prew’s men sat on the ground in a dry creek bed, their horses’ reins in their hands. But looking back and forth in all directions, Sam could see no more of the mercenaries.
Yet, as his lens made another sweep back to a stretch of trees and brush, he spotted three freight wagons lying in wait. ‘‘There they are,’’ he murmured to himself. A thousand yards north along the barren rails, he caught a glimpse of Jefferies on his paint horse, riding back into the cover of trees from a telegraph pole. ‘‘Now we wait.’’
It was late afternoon when Jefferies rode up, stepped down from his saddle and hitched the paint beside Sam’s stallion. ‘‘You were right, Ranger,’’ he said, crouching as he walked out closer to the edge. ‘‘The lines are cut somewhere. It could take days to find out where.’’
‘‘Maybe it’s just as well.’’ Sam nodded, raising the lens back to his eye. ‘‘From the look of things, this is going to go smooth and quiet. Prew has his men spread a long ways along the rails. He’s wanting to keep this quiet and bloodless is my guess.’’
‘‘Let’s hope so,’’ said Jefferies. ‘‘If we stop him and his men right here, we won’t get Captain Murella.’’
‘‘Then we need to sit tight and let Prew play this out before we hit them,’’ said Sam. He lowered the lens long enough to point toward a set of rails running off of the main track and stopping three hundred yards south. ‘‘He’s got to get the munitions car over onto those tracks, out of the way. He needs time to get it unloaded onto his wagons.’’
‘‘You’ve located his wagons?’’ Jefferies asked, easing down beside the ranger.
‘‘Yes. There are three of them.’’ Sam handed Jefferies the telescope and directed him toward the hidden wagons. ‘‘Go a thousand yards to your right. You’ll see three of his men.’’
Raising the lens carefully to his swollen eye Jefferies looked out first at the hidden wagons, then scanned to the right until he found the three men. ‘‘There’s Loden,’’ he said quietly, ‘‘the one who did most of this to me.’’
Testing him, Sam said, ‘‘I suppose you’ll want to settle with him once we get started.’’
‘‘Only if it works out that way, Ranger,’’ Jefferies said, staring at Loden in the round circle of vision. ‘‘I’m here to do my job. Loden is only one small part of it. I want them all.’’
Sam nodded to himself, liking the answer.
They spent the night listening, watching for any lantern lights or campfires below. There were none, save for a dim light spilling from a window onto the wooden platform. Two hours before daylight, Sam stood up from a blanket he’d spread on the ground. Checking his rifle he said to Jefferies, ‘‘Time to go to work.’’
Jefferies arose quietly. He poured fresh water onto his bandanna, wrung it out and pressed it to his swollen eyes. Ten minutes later they were on their way down the side of the mesa, riding silently, keeping their horses at a quiet walk. But before they’d ridden halfway down, Sam halted his stallion and said, ‘‘Listen—hear that?’’
After a second’s pause, listening to a low roar approaching from out on the distant flatlands, Jefferies said, ‘‘It’s the train! It’s not supposed to arrive here for another two hours!’’
‘‘It’s early,’’ said Sam. ‘‘Let’s get down there. I expect if he’s got a station manager in his pocket, Prew can have him set things up however he wants them done.’’
They hurried downward as fast as they dared risk their horses in the darkness. But before they reached the bottom of the mesa they heard the roar of the train move across the land in front of them and realized they wouldn’t make it to Choking Wells in time. ‘‘We haven’t heard any gunfire. Things are still all right,’’ Sam offered as they hastened their horses’ pace across the flatlands. ‘‘They can’t shake us off their trail, not with three loaded wagons.’’
By the time they reached the edge of the clearing surrounding the station, the train had finished taking on water and chugged on into the silvery darkness. In the east, the first sliver of red sunlight wreathed the rolling horizon. ‘‘Nothing happened,’’ Jefferies said in a whisper, stopping his paint horse and looking back and across Choking Wells.
‘‘I wouldn’t say that,’’ the ranger whispered in reply. The two listened to the creaking sound of one car rolling freely along the set of rails south of the deserted station. ‘‘We hoped this would go smooth and bloodless,’’ he added, ‘‘it sounds like we got what we wanted.’’
Jefferies smiled, listening to the railcar slowing as it rolled along the siding rails. ‘‘They cut the munitions car loose as the train pulled out and switched it onto the siding rail.’’ He paused, then said, ‘‘But what about the caboose?’’
No sooner had he said it than the ranger’s gun streaked up from his holster and pointed at the two startled faces that had just stepped out of the silvery darkness. They froze at the sight of the Colt. ‘‘Oh, Lord, mister! Don’t shoot!’’ said one frightened railroader, both of them throwing their hands in the air. They wore bib overalls and floppy railroad hats.
‘‘No, please don’t,’’ said the other one. ‘‘We never saw nothing, honest we never!’’
‘‘I’m an Arizona Ranger,’’ Sam said, lowering his gun an inch. ‘‘What’s gone on here?’’
‘‘A ranger!’’ Their attitudes improved instantly. ‘‘Man, are we glad to see you. We just got an army car and our caboose stolen out from under us.’’ The railroader pointed toward the creaking sound of the railcar. ‘‘Soon as we seen they’d switched us, we hopped off and let it go. What else could we do?’’
Noting their voices getting louder, Sam said, ‘‘You did right hopping off. Now keep quiet and get out of here before any shooting starts. Find the nearest place to get a wire off and let the army know they’ve had a munitions shipment stolen.’’
‘‘We’ll do that,’’ one of them replied, and both hurried away.
Sam and Jefferies watched the two scurry along the rails. Then, listening to the sound of the single car rolling away, Jefferies said, ‘‘So far, so good. We’ll find the caboose sitting somewhere along there. They cut it loose, braked it down and left it blocking the tracks for them.’’
‘‘Prew knows his business,’’ Sam said. He nudged his stallion forward, leading the donkey beside him.
‘‘So do we,’’ said Jefferies. ‘‘We’ll catch up to them while they load the wagons, then we’ll stay back and keep a close tail on them back across the border. So far Prew has everything going like clockwork. Let’s hope he keeps it up.’’
‘‘It would help if we had some light to work by,’’ Elmsly said under his breath to Stu Wakeland and Sway Loden. The three of them hurriedly carried crate after crate of ammunition, blasting powder, and dynamite out of the munitions car and handed it down to Indian Frank, who stood stacking it in one of the freight wagons.
‘‘Keep complaining and see if you don’t get a bullet in your head instead of a cut of the money,’’ Loden replied in a harsh whisper.
‘‘He didn’t mean nothing by it,’’ said Wakeland, realizing Elmsly had made a mistake.
‘‘You don’t have to mean anything to get yourself cut out of the pay is what I’ve heard,’’ said Loden. ‘‘Alls you need do is keep running your mouth.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Wakeland said to Elmsly as the two hefted either end of a larger crate. ‘‘Once these wagons are loaded, the need for men lessens by half, the way I figure.’’
‘‘You figure right,’’ said Loden. ‘‘Something went on when Prew and some of yas made that dry run. I ain’t figured it all out yet, but I will.’’ He looked along t
he side of the car in the grainy predawn light at the three wagons being loaded feverishly out of the long two-door railcar. Prew stood at the other door, his rifle in the crook of his arm. Cherokee stood across from him, his Colt hanging in his hand.
Wakeland and Elmsly gave one another a blank stare in the darkened railcar, then moved out and hefted a crate over into Indian Frank’s big powerful arms.
‘‘Now we’ve got somebody else joining us,’’ Loden whispered as the two walked back into the railcar.
At the other freight door Prew lifted his rifle and waved it back and forth at a rider who appeared out of the silver darkness. Seeing the men loading the wagons tense and lay their hands on their guns, Prew said, ‘‘Everybody keep at it. This is our man, Ike Sherard.’’
When the rider sidled up to the railcar and stepped up into it from his saddle, he said, ‘‘Morning, Prew. How’d it go?’’
‘‘Sweeter than a birthday cake.’’ Prew grinned. As he spoke he reached inside his coat and took out a thick brown envelope bulging with cash. As he handed the envelope to Sherard, he hesitated turning it loose. ‘‘You might ought to leave this with me a while longer. I’ve had an Arizona Ranger pestering me the past two weeks. He’s still hanging around somewhere, no doubt.’’
‘‘It’s probably the lawman I told Spivey to warn you about,’’ said Sherard, seeming unconcerned. ‘‘Didn’t know it was a ranger though.’’ He gave a tug, freeing the envelope. ‘‘If it’s all the same, I’ll take it up front, the way we always do. My army friend likes it this way.’’ He opened the envelope, smiled, fanned across the bills, then closed it and put it inside his long yellow riding duster. Looking back at Prew he asked, ‘‘Who is this ranger? Anybody to worry about?’’