Navarro

by Ralph Compton

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  What she found herself staring at was an Indian arrow—sun-bleached and cracked but with a razor sharp, flatiron head. She glanced around again. The two men behind the rocks were still talking. Quickly, she crouched down, plucked the arrow off the ground, and broke it over her knee, making the break as close to the head as she could.

  She stood, slipped the sharp tip and four-inch length of broken arrow into her right front pocket, pulled the long shirttails from her jeans, and arranged them over the pocket, concealing the elongated lump. Turning, she strode back to the horses.

  The chinless, stubby-nosed man assigned to watch her stared at her suspiciously, his carbine crossed in his arms. “What were you doing over there?”

  “What do you think?”

  “What was that cracking noise?”

  “I stepped on a twig,” Karla said, rolling her eyes as she brushed past the man, whom she’d overheard being called Snipe. “Don’t get your shorts all in a knot.”

  When the group stopped again that night, bivouacking in a deep sand gorge, the girls were again tied in a string at least a hundred feet away from the men. As the altitude was higher here, the nights colder, Willis had been ordered to build them a small fire. Water was more plentiful here, too, so each girl was given a cup of coffee to wash down her serving of the antelope, which a couple of the scouts had shot earlier.

  After they’d each been freed to tend to nature, and when their fire had been banked and they’d each been given a blanket, they all curled up and went to sleep. All except Karla.

  She lay awake listening to the men getting drunk and singing and laughing around their fire on the other side of the gorge, just beyond some rocks and brush. They’d run into more whiskey traders earlier, so if things went like the last time they’d traded scalps for whiskey, they’d probably all be sleeping like March lambs within a few hours. One man had been sent to guard the girls, but he’d apparently had a good portion of mescal over supper. Sitting against the high rock wall to Karla’s right, he was having trouble keeping his head up. He took frequent sips from a small flask he’d produced from his boot well.

  Lying on her side, curled beneath her single blanket, Karla watched him through slitted lids. Even before the other men had turned in for the night, the guard was sound asleep, chin on his chest, hat fallen onto the rifle resting across his thighs.

  When both fires had burned down, and the men’s snores competed with the coyotes’ yammering, Karla rolled onto her left side. During the last time the men had untied her, she’d hidden the arrowhead up her right shirtsleeve. Jostling her arm until the arrow fell into her palm, she nudged Billie with her other elbow.

  The girl groaned but remained asleep.

  “Billie,” Karla whispered, nudging her again, “wake up.”

  The girl’s eyes opened, and she tensed with alarm. “What?”

  “Shhh,” Karla said. “I have a plan to get us out of here. Are you awake enough to listen?”

  Billie turned to face her, blinking. “What’re you talking about?”

  “I promised Marlene I’d get her back to her family, and I aim to keep my promise. Are you ready?”

  “What . . . how . . . ?”

  “I found an arrow sharp enough to cut through the ropes.” Karla turned a glance at the guard, who had now rolled onto his right shoulder, snoring.

  Turning to Billie again, and keeping her voice down, Karla said, “They’re all drunk. Once we get all the girls untied, we can put bridles on the horses and ride out of here. If we’re very quiet, I think we can do it.”

  Billie rose up on her left elbow. “How will we know where to go?”

  “We’ll head north until we find a ranch or a town . . . anyone who’ll help us get back to the border.” Karla spared another glance at the guard. “These drunks’ll probably sleep until dawn. By the time they find us gone, we’ll be a good five or six hours away.”

  Billie turned from Karla to regard the camp beyond the brush and the rocks. The fire had died down, but enough flickering light remained to silhouette the men slumped along the base of the rock wall. Not far from the firelight, the towering walls enshrouded the gorge in chill velvety darkness.

  Billie turned to Karla. “All right.”

  “Roll over,” Karla said, “and extend your wrists as far back as you can.”

  As Billie rolled one way, giving her back and tied wrists to Karla, Karla rolled the other way, giving her own back and tied wrists to the girl. Sliding as close to Billie as she could, Karla took the girls hands in her own, traced the rope with her fingers, then took the arrowhead between the thumb and index finger of her right hand, and began sawing at the rope.

  It was a long, tedious process, for the rope was stout, and the arrow wasn’t as sharp as a good bowie or skinning knife, like those worn by the hardcases. Lying with her back to what she was cutting, with her hands tied, cut off the blood flow. Her fingers stiffened quickly and she had to clasp the arrowhead in her palm several times, and rest. Precious time was wasting. She hadn’t thought it would take this long.

  She was about two-thirds through the rope when the guard snorted suddenly. Karla had been staring at the ground as she worked, jaw tensed, but she lifted her gaze to the man now. He’d lifted his head and seemed to be looking this way. It was too dark for her to see him clearly, but she thought his mouth opened.

  “I told you the money was good in that little bank,” he grumbled thickly. “Didn’t I tell you, boys?”

  Karla lay still, clasping Billie’s hands in her own to keep her quiet. Karla could hear her heart beating. She stared at the hardcase. A minute later, his head collapsed, and a half minute after that, his snores resumed, blending with the others on the other side of the canyon.

  Karla went back to work on Billie’s rope, and a minute later, her fingers stiff and swollen, she sawed through the last of the hemp strands. The rope gave, and Billie’s wrists sprang free.

  “You did it!” Billie whispered.

  Karla relaxed her tired muscles, resting her head on the ground, catching her breath. “Now free me,” she whispered to the girl behind her. “The arrow’s in my hand.”

  Billie scrambled onto her knees and plucked the arrowhead from Karla’s right palm. Billie placed one hand on Karla’s shoulder and sawed at the rope with the other—choppy, uneven strokes. The knots were too tight for even the hardcases to work loose with their fingers; they always cut the rope. Billie grunted and gasped with effort, jerking Karla’s shoulders back and forth. But since she had full use of her hands, it wasn’t long before Karla felt the rope give.

  Scrambling onto her knees, she ripped off the remaining rope from both wrists, then tugged and pulled and squeezed until she had her ankles free, as well. She squeezed Billie’s arm. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Silently, Karla stood and tiptoed over to the unconscious guard. She crouched beside him, placed her hand on the bone-handled knife poking up from a sheath on his right hip, and slowly slipped it out.

  Holding the knife in both hands, she turned slowly and tiptoed back to Billie kneeling and watching her, the girl’s wide eyes shadowed by the dying umber fire. Karla knelt and put the knife’s sharp edge to the ropes tying Billie’s ankles together. One flick of the knife, and Billie’s feet were free.

  “Let’s free the rest of the girls,” Karla whispered, rising.

  She turned away from Billie, then turned quickly back. A shadow moved just behind the girl, a high-crowned hat taking shape in the dull light. Karla’s blood turned to ice. Before she could move or think or do anything, an arm snaked around her from behind.

  A hand closed brusquely over her mouth, pinching off her wind, lifting her off her feet, and jerking her back, half carrying, half dragging her off down the canyon.

  Chapter 18

  Karla flailed with the knife until an arm smashed down on her wrist. Her hand opened, and the knife fell as she was pu
lled quickly backward, stumbling over rocks and shrubs. She fell and was dragged over sand and gravel, the bottoms of her feet and the backs of her heels rubbed raw.

  She must have been carried sixty or seventy yards down the canyon before the man suddenly released her. She fell hard on her back, the air slammed from her lungs.

  “Got yourself free, uh, pretty gringa?” the man said in a heavy Mexican accent, catching his breath. “Good. That makes less work for me and Weelis.”

  Karla was too out of breath to say anything. She looked back the way she’d come. A shadow moved toward her. Two figures, in fact—the man called Willis manhandling Billie the way Karla had been wrenched and dragged down the canyon. Willis had one arm around the girl’s waist, his other hand cupped over her mouth.

  Approaching, he twisted around and flung Billie down beside Karla, then brought his hat to his mouth, sucking a finger. “Little bitch bit me!”

  Billie gasped and sobbed, her hair splayed across her face.

  Gaining her breath at last, Karla rose up on her elbows and snarled at the Mexican, whom she’d heard called Pancho, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Pancho flung his hat aside and grinned down at her, showing his pointed brown teeth buried within his thin, drooping mustaches. “Weelis and I decided we have gone without female companionship long enough.”

  With that, he chuckled and threw himself atop Karla, pinning her hands down with his own and nuzzling her neck. Karla recoiled from the oily, bristly feel of the man, and from the ripe stench of the mescal on his breath. Gritting her teeth, she struggled, scissoring her legs and trying to free her hands.

  As she fought, she heard Billie struggling to her left, pleading and sobbing. Clothing ripped. Billie started to scream, but it was cut short by a hand on her mouth.

  “Shut up, you little bitch,” Willis growled at the girl. “One word of this to Edgar, and Pancho and I’ll skin you both alive!”

  Karla slipped her right hand out from under Pancho’s left, and slapped the wiry Mexican hard across his face. Laughing, he grabbed her wrist, squeezing until she thought the bone was being pulverized, and slammed it back down in the gravel beside her head.

  He was lowering his head once more to hers when he suddenly froze. Keeping his hand clamped down on hers, he jolted upright and looked around, listening.

  “Weelis,” he whispered.

  Willis was too involved to reply until Pancho had called his name two more times. Willis raised his head from Billie’s chest and turned to his cohort, frowning incredulously, his hair in his eyes.

  Pancho opened his mouth to speak but stopped when something thrashed in the brush on the south side of the canyon, to Karla’s right. Both men turned sharply that way. An instant later, Pancho released Karla’s left hand, and slipped his revolver from his holster, thumbing back the hammer.

  “What the hell was that?” Willis said, rising on his knees and unholstering his own pistol.

  The brush on the other opposite of the canyon thrashed, as though something large were on the prod. Both men whipped their heads that way.

  “ ’Paches,” Willis said, a trill in his voice. He stood, stumbling back a step. “Shit . . .”

  “Madre Maria!” Pancho cried, standing over Karla and extending his pistol toward the right side of the canyon.

  Karla turned her face to the ground and crossed her arms over her head as the bark of Pancho’s revolver echoed like a cannon in the narrow cleft. The man fired again. Willis did, as well, both men firing until the chasm filled with one continuous roar, making Karla’s ears ring and her nostrils fill with the rotten-egg smell of cordite.

  The din died suddenly, punctuated by both gun hammers snapping on empty chambers.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Willis whispered.

  Karla lowered her arms and turned to look up at the two men. They stood ten feet away, back to back, facing opposite sides of the canyon. The darkness was relieved by only the few stars that shone between the towering rock walls. Billie lay huddled to Karla’s right, facedown, head buried in her arms.

  On the right side of the canyon, the brush popped and rattled, as though someone were thrashing around with a stick.

  “Sheet,” Pancho muttered. “They’re still there—reload!”

  Both men had just begun ripping fresh shells from their cartridge belts when a gun popped on the right side of the canyon, the flash like a sudden lightning bolt lashing parallel to the ground.

  “Madre!” Pancho cried, both knees buckling as he grabbed his left thigh.

  Willis flipped opened his revolver’s loading gate and tried shoving a bullet into a chamber. The bullet clicked against the cylinder and dropped from his shaking hands, plunking off his right boot toe.

  The gun in the brush popped again.

  Willis’ right leg snapped back. The man grunted sharply and fell, clutching his knee and cursing.

  Silence thickened, relieved only by the sighs and groans of the two wounded men shuffling around in the darkness before Karla, who lay on her side beside Billie, one hand on the girl’s back.

  For a time, she’d been certain she was about to die. Now she wasn’t so certain. . . .

  The brush on the right side of the canyon thrashed. A man chuckled. Karla turned from the wounded men to see a tall shadow move out from the canyon wall. The brush on the opposite side of the canyon crackled, and another shadow walked out to meet the first one in the canyon’s center, where Pancho and Willis clutched their wounded limbs and rolled on their backs in agony.

  “Does that hurt terribly, Pancho?” Edgar Bontemps asked. “It should.” He slid his foot toward the wounded Mexican.

  Pancho screamed. “Ah, madre, please . . . !”

  Sensing what was coming, Karla closed her hands over Billie’s ears and steeled herself, wincing.

  “What have I told you men about playing with the girls? Huh, Willis? What have I told you about damaging the trade goods?”

  “Please, Edgar,” Willis said in a pinched voice. “Don’t do this. You can’t expect us to ride with these girls for days without tryin’ to get a little. That ain’t reasonable. It just ain’t reasonable.” He panted. “Oh, Lord. You blew out my knee, Edgar!”

  The gun exploded again, flames stabbing down from Bontemps’ silhouette. Willis screamed. It did not sound like a human scream at all, as it spiraled and echoed toward the canyon’s rim, charging the darkness with an enervated fever.

  “There!” the man raged. “I blew out the other!”

  Willis cried and panted. He whimpered like a small child.

  “Just ’cause you,” Willis managed to squeak out accusingly, “just ’cause you can’t take no pleasure . . . since the war . . .”

  Another gun blast silenced him.

  “And now for you, Pancho . . . a lesson to take to the next world.”

  “No, por favor!”

  Pop! Pop!

  Silence except the distant murmurs of the other men spilling out from the camp.

  “Should I bury ’em, Edgar?” Dupree asked.

  “No,” Bontemps said. “Drag ’em back to camp so the others get a good look at what happens to those that fool with the merchandise.” Walking away, he holstered his pistol and grumbled, “And tie those girls with the others.”

  Two days later, Mordecai Hawkins—chief wrangler for the Butterfield stage station at Benson, Arizona—halted his horse along a rocky saddle high in pine-clad Sonoran mountains. Holding his Henry rifle in his right hand, he leaned out over his left stirrup and scoured the ground with his gaze.

  After a minute, Hawkins straightened, slammed his left fist down on his saddle horn so hard that the claybank spooked, flicking its ears and tossing its head. The old wrangler loosed a spiel of epithets that would have colored the cheeks of the woolliest St. Louis grogshop proprietor.

  “What is it, Mr. Hawkins?” a woman said behind him.

  The wrangler broke off the tirade midsentence and whipped around in his saddle, startle
d. “Uh . . . sorry, Mrs. Talon,” the old wrangler said meekly. “Didn’t hear ye ride up.”

  “Have we lost the trail again?” Louise Talon asked.

  She sat a tall paint mare—a regal brown-eyed woman of early middle-age, with long cherry blond hair pulled back in a ponytail held fast with a bone clasp at the nape of her neck. She wore black gloves, a felt hat, a cream blouse that accented the full breasts and slender waist, and a belted wool skirt with a slit for riding astride.

  Louise Talon had what Hawkins had heard described as classical beauty, with a prominent chin, straight nose, and salty Irish humor lines around her wide-set eyes, which shone like pennies at certain times of the day. Hawkins thought the woman could pass for an Irish queen, but she was no fainting Fianna. She had run the swing station at Benson since her husband, a freight contractor, died six years ago, leaving her with one swaybacked gelding and a file drawer swollen with unpaid bills.

  At first, Hawkins had scoffed at working for a woman. But having seen Mrs. Talon fight off marauding Apaches and horse thieves with a Winchester rifle, in addition to cooking, cleaning, serving stage passengers, and tending an irrigated kitchen garden, he’d deemed her as tough or tougher than many of the men he’d once trapped with up along the Green River in Wyoming—high praise from an old hardtack frontiersman like Hawkins.

  “ ’Pears the rain washed it out,” Hawkins told her with a faint edge of annoyance. “Why don’t you wait here, give the horses a blow? I’ll cross that creek yonder. See if I can cut the sign again in them trees.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he dismounted, handed her his reins and the packhorse’s lead rope, then ambled down the gravelly hill tufted in short tough grasses with a sprinkling of blue and purple wildflowers. He crossed the creek and tramped along the pine-clad shoulder of the opposite hill, lowering his head to scour the ground with his gaze.