“Better have some breakfast,” Cassidy suggested as he walked past, headed for the corral. Tom Katch was alone at the table when Bowdrie went inside. Katch was a big man, six-feet-four and weighing a good two hundred and thirty.
“If there’s anything we can do, let us know. Cassidy is a good man on a trail and he likes a fight, but all of us are ready to take a hand if we’re needed.” Katch talked while Bowdrie ate, sitting with a cup of coffee over the remains of his breakfast. “That Mexican you spoke of?. Did he have a name?”
“We didn’t have a name,” Bowdrie said, “just a description. He was a horse thief who got caught and killed a man.” He was making up the story as he went along, not wanting to tip his hand too much. “I can’t bother with him now. This ambush is the important thing.”
Once he was back on the trail, Bowdrie slowed the roan to a walk. He had little to work with aside from the knowledge that it would require a hard lot of men and the fact that he knew who had betrayed the Zaparo outfit. The loot had been taken away on the pack mules that carried it, and those mule’s must be somewhere around. He knew they were mules from the hoofprints at the scene, and he had back-trailed the bandits for a mile or so. The loot must be hidden for the time, and such a lot of men and mules could not travel far without being seen.
Mentally he shaped a map of the area, bounded on the south by the Rio Grande, and with the arroyo where the ambush occurred as the center. North and west of that arroyo was the range where the K-Bar ran their cattle, and south to the river it was rough, half-desert country where few men ventured. East there was twenty miles of rough country and then the small village of Pasamonte.
There was something else. Not over eight miles from the arroyo was the cantina and roadhouse of Pedro Padilla. The cantina was the favored stopping place for cowhands, wet Mexicans from the Rio Grande crossing, and all manner of wayfarers. Aside from Pasamonte it was the only place a man could buy a drink or a meal. The cantina was built on the ruins of an old mission, a long, low, rambling building surrounding a stone-paved patio. It utilized two walls and the floor of the ancient building, three sides of which were the cantina, and the fourth was reserved for the Padilla family.
If any news was floating around, Pedro Padilla would have heard it. If any strangers had come into the country, he would know. If mules had passed, he would have seen them. The question was, would he tell a Ranger? Or anybody? What must Bowdrie find out? Who was the leader of the attackers? Where had they gone from the arroyo? Where had Juan Piron met with the leader of the ambushers? How had he transmitted the final information as to route, and so on? By what route had the killers arrived at the arroyo? All could turn on Piron himself. He was the one link between the bandits and their murderers.
The cantina basked in the hot desert sun. Leaving his horse in the shade of some cottonwoods, Bowdrie entered the spacious, low-raftered room that was the cantina itself. Strings of peppers hung everywhere, and there were two ollas of fresh cold water, each with a gourd dipper. A dozen tables and a bar, a floor of freshly swept flagstones. Padilla was a paunchy Mexican with a large black mustache and a wary eye, the latter no doubt because he had several attractive
daughters. He wore a huge old-fashioned pistol, perhaps for the same reason. He not only had daughters, Bowdrie perceived, but granddaughters as well, and a wife that would make two of him.
Dropping into a chair, Bowdrie ordered a cold beer, suggesting to Padilla that he join him and have one himself. A desultory conversation began, inhibited somewhat by the Ranger’s badge on his vest, a conversation that covered the heat, the lack of rain, the condition of the range and its cattle, as well as the difficulties of conducting a business so far from the law.
“No doubt,” Bowdrie suggested, “many bad men come as well as the good. You are close to the border.”
“Si! They come, they spend money, they go! I know none of them, and do not wish to know!”
One of Padilla’s daughters was wiping a table nearby, and Chick watched her. “Juan Piron comes here often?” he asked casually, aware that she was listening.
“Piron?” Padilla shrugged. “I do not know him. He is a vaquero?”
“That, too, maybe …. He is a bandido, I think.” Padilla’s daughter had paused an instant at the name. She knew the name, he was sure. More likely that Padilla knew Zaparo. “It is bad about Zaparo,” he said thoughtfully. He took a swallow of the beer.
Padilla glanced at him, then away. “Zaparo? I have heard of him.”
“Si. It is a bad thing. To be killed is bad, to be ambushed–“
The broom handle hit the floor. Bowdrie’s eyes went to the girl. She was staring wide-eyed at him. “Zaparo.? He was killed? His men too?”
“All,” he replied, “all are gone. They never had a chance.” Padilla was staring, disbelief in his eyes. His daughter dropped to her knees, clasping her apron in her fingers. “Not the young one! Not he of the curly hair! Do not tell me the young one with the smile, the I”
Bowdrie’s memory was good, and no such Mexican had been among the dead. Yet, how could that be? An ambush with one man escaping? The sort of men he had been picturing would never let anyone escape. There was something wrong here, something…
“Fourteen men were dead on the ground, Chiquita,” he explained.
“The Rurales?” Padilla asked.
“No, it was other bandidos, gringo bandidos perhaps. I do not know.” His eyes studied the innkeeper. “Zaparo is dead, senor, and you were his friend, I think. Now it does not matter except that I must find those who killed him. A killing is an evil thing no matter who is killed, and his killers were evil men.” He paused. “I think this Juan Piron betrayed Zaparo.” He caught Padilla’s wrist. “Do you know who that someone was, amigo? Have you seen Piron talking to someone? Even here, perhaps?”
There was a brief flare of realization in Padilla’s eyes, but he merely shrugged. “Perhaps he talks here. I do not remember.” Bowdrie glanced at the girl, still on her knees where she had fallen. “Chiquita, if your lover was a man of Zaparo, and if he looked as you have said, he was not among the dead. I remember each face, each man. He was not among them.”
“Gracias, senor. She got to her feet, eyes bright with happiness. Padilla got up suddenly and left the room. Chick caught the girl’s hand. “Chiquita, you can help me. Zaparo was not a good man, yet not so bad as some. He stole precious things from churches in Sonora. They must be found and returned. Your lover was not killed, so he will come to you, no? If he does, send him to me. He can help me.”
“You would not betray him, senor? To the Rurales? We are to be married soon.”
“I wish to speak to him, that is all. What he has done was in Mexico, but now he can change. Zaparo is dead, but those who killed him must be found. Your man can help me.”
Bowdrie awakened suddenly, hours later, lying across his bed above the cantina. Music sounded from below, but it was not that which awakened him. A dozen horses were tied at the hitching rail outside the gate of the patio. From where he lay he could see across the patio and into the lighted window opposite. Ferd Cassidy suddenly appeared in the room, but moving as if he had just risen from a seat. Then Broughten came into the room with Hawkins. Only nine or ten miles from the K-Bar this was undoubtedly a hangout for the men from the ranch.
Bowdrie went to the basin, still in the half-light from the window opposite, and splashed cold water on his face. Then he combed his hair before picking up his hat. As he started for the door, a surreptitious movement arrested his attention and he froze in position, watching. The Mexican girl, Chiquita, was leading a saddled horse toward the gate, obviously not wishing to be discovered. He waited an instant, then stepped out into the night. The girl was outside the gate, where she slipped into the saddle and started walking her horse along the trail. At almost the instant she got into the saddle, the dark figure of a man showed against the lighted window opposite, then vanished.
As Bowdrie started for the gate himself
, he saw the man mount and ride after the girl. Where could she be going at such an hour? Who was following her? Stepping quickly into the stable, Bowdrie saddled and bridled the roan. Gathering the reins, he stepped into the saddle and followed them down the trail, keeping to the grassy shoulder. Within a few minutes he glimpsed the man ahead; then he seemed to vanish. Worried, Bowdrie reached the spot only to discover that the desert broke away into the steep bank of a wash. Starting down the side, he glimpsed the outline of a rider against the night, a rider some distance off, but who could only be Chiquita.
What had become of the man following her? Glancing right and left into the deeper shadows, he decided that rider must have ridden either up or down the wash, knowing perhaps that this wash intercepted the trail farther along. Bowdrie chose to follow Chiquita up the steep opposite bank. She rode straight on as though to a goal, and Chick had an idea of whom she planned to meet.
They rode for nearly an hour; then a faint glimmer of firelight showed. By now they were in a remote region of canyons and weird rock formations where such a fire could not be seen for any distance. Bowdrie, following warily, glimpsed it only occasionally when he topped out on high ground or when the rocks stood apart to offer greater visibility. Chiquita rode directly to the fire and slid from her horse. Bowdrie studied the terrain. What had become of the rider who followed her? Had that rider realized Bowdrie was behind them?
Tying the roan to a mesquite bush, he crept through the cacti and mesquite until he could, from behind a rock, overlook the situation. The young Mexican who held the girl in his arms could only be a henchman of Zaparo’s. They were talking in Spanish but the air was clear and Bowdrie was close enough to hear every word.
“It is what you feared,” she was saying. “Something has happened! Zaparo is dead! All of them are dead! They were attacked by other outlaws and killed! All of them!”
“Zaparo? But how? Who could have known their way?”
“The gringo with the black hat, the one who looks like an Apache, he says it was Juan Piron who betrayed them.”
“Ah? I am not surprised. But he was killed also?”
“The gringo says they are all dead, that they had no further use for Piron, and did not trust him. And now they have the loot!”
“I care nothing for that!” he said indignantly. “But Zaparo! There was a man! He was my friend, also, and to be betrayed by such a man?”
“The gringo wishes to talk to you. He promises you no harm. He wishes only to find the gringo outlaws.”
The Mexican shook his head. “I know nothing, Chiquita!” Their voices became lower, and then after a quick kiss Chiquita gave him a package of food and got back into the saddle. Turning her horse, she rode into darkness.
Bowdrie was in a quandary. Here was his chance to talk to the young Mexican, and there might never be another. On the other hand, the unknown rider might follow Chiquita. Had he also overheard? Or had he come this far? He made his decision quickly. He would do both. He spoke, hoping his voice would carry no farther than the young Mexican. “Stand where you are! I am a friend!”
The Mexican rooted himself in his tracks, but turned slowly to face him. “I am the gringo Chiquita mentioned, and I must talk with you, but we must ride also, for Chiquita is in danger.”
“Chiquita? In danger? I will get my horse.”
Warily Chick watched him go, then circled the fire beyond the reach of its light. He saw no good place where a watcher might have been, and if there had been one, he was gone. “Leave the fire. There is nothing for it to burn and there is no time.”
Bowdrie led the way; then the Mexican closed up beside him and Bowdrie explained about the follower he had glimpsed. Then he asked, “What do you know of Piron?”
“He was cousin to Zaparo but I did not trust him. I followed once when he met with two men, but could not see their faces. Zaparo would not believe he was a traitor. He became very angry with me.”
“How did it happen you were not with them?”
“My father, senor, he is ill. When he became better I rode to see Chiquita, but also hoping she could tell what happened to Zaparo. He had been gone too long, and at the cantina they hear everything.”
Suddenly they heard a scream, quickly choked off. The young Mexican slapped spurs to his horse and was gone like a shot. Bowdrie could only follow. He saw them suddenly, two struggling figures in the road, but at the sound of the rushing horses the man threw the girl from him and grabbed for his pistol. Chick drew and fired, and the man dropped his gun and staggered, dropping to his knees. Bowdrie hit the ground on the run and saw the young Mexican go to Chiquita. She fell into his arms, moaning with fright, and Chick struck a match with his thumbnail.
The wounded man was Hawkins. “What did you jump me for?” Hawkins did not seem badly hurt, but it was too dark to see. “Can’t a feller have a little fun without you hornin’ in?”
“Not when the girl doesn’t want him,” Bowdrie replied.
“Huh! You’d help one of Zaparo’s outlaws rather’n an American?” The moon, rising out above the mountain ridge, provided small light. How, Bowdrie wondered, had Hawkins known the Mexican was one of Zaparo’s gang? Such gossip might be going around, of course. Still…
“Mount up,” he said. “We’ll ride back to the cantina. And you, Hawkins, consider yourself my prisoner.”
“Me?” Hawkins was startled. “A prisoner? What for?”
“Mount up,” Bowdrie replied. “I think you’re just the man I’ve been lookin’ for.” Hawkins became suddenly quiet.
“So?” he said. Nor did he utter another word during the ride back to the cantina. Bowdrie took him through a back way, guided by Chiquita, to one of Padilla’s spare rooms, where he handcuffed him to the bed.
Bowdrie’s hasty shot had done little damage. It had, judging from a quick examination, hit Hawkins’s large belt buckle at an angle, glanced off, and ripped his shirt at the elbow, scratching the skin and momentarily numbing his arm and hand. “You were lucky,” Bowdrie said briefly, “or maybe you weren’t, depending on whether you prefer a bullet to a rope.”
“What’s that mean?” Hawkins demanded. Leaving him handcuffed, Bowdrie went into the cantina, where Broughten was watching a poker game and a half-dozen others were hanging about. One of them was Ferd Cassidy. Chick nodded to him. “When you get ready to ride,” he commented, “don’t wait for Hawkins. He’s under arrest.”
Broughten turned sharply and Cassidy put his glass down on the table. “What’s he done?” Cassidy asked. “He followed one of Padilla’s girls into the desert and got rough with her.” Bowdrie paused, then added, “While I have him, I’d better speak to him on some other matters.”
“What matters?” Cassidy’s eyes were cold and ugly. There was a tenseness in the man that went beyond what could be expected. Suddenly Bowdrie was wondering. Why not the K-Bar outfit? A tough lot, close to the scene, yet so far as he knew, nothing of the kind had ever been held against them before. Of course, there was always the first time, and if they were tipped off to the amount of loot …
A man came in the door, glanced around, taking in the tableau with casual interest; then he sat down at a table near the door. He was young, blond, and wiry-looking. Nobody seemed to notice his arrival. “Just a little investigation,” Bowdrie replied. “Hawkins knew that Pablo, Chiquita’s friend, was one of the Zaparo outfit. We’re trying to learn all we can about Zaparo, and I’m curious as to how he knows.”
The room was very still. Two Mexican cowhands who had been standing at the bar quietly left, and an older man with gray chin whiskers eased himself off his chair, and putting on his hat, went out a side door. “Thought all of Zaparo’s outfit were dead,” Cassidy said.
“Looked like it,” Bowdrie replied, “but it seems some of them were suspicious of Juan Piron. They’d seen him talkin’ with some gringos, and it didn’t look good to them.”
Cassidy shrugged. “Well, whatever, but don’t hold him longer than you need to. We’v
e got work to do.” The K-Bar boys left, mounted, and rode away. Bowdrie went to the bar and ordered a beer, turning the matter over in his mind. There was small chance the cowhand would talk, and a better-than-even chance he had nothing to tell. It might be nothing more than a cowhand going after a girl he believed might listen to him. Bowdrie had an unhappy feeling that he was making a fool of himself. Certainly he would no longer be welcome at the K-Bar. Ranch hands were clannish, and a move against one of their number was a move against all. Yet he could not rid himself of the notion that he had a fingerhold on the problem.
Leaving his beer only half-finished, he went to his room, and was passing the spare room where he had left Hawkins when he heard a scurry of movement. Drawing his gun, he flung the door open and was just in time to see Hawkins going out the window. He grabbed for him with his left hand. He caught the corner of a hip pocket and it ripped. The pocket tore away and something tinkled on the floor. Hawkins was out the window, sprawling on the ground. Scrambling to his feet, the bald-headed man started to run as Chick jumped through the window. As he hit the ground he thought he heard a low voice speaking to Hawkins; then a gun flashed and a bullet struck near him. Bowdrie fired in return at two indistinct riders. Two guns barked and a bullet nicked his arm, spoiling his last shot. There was a pound of racing hooves, then silence.
Moving with care, Bowdrie started toward where he had last seen Hawkins and saw the body of a man sprawled on the hard-packed earth in the pale, greenish light from the risen moon. Waiting a moment, he listened but heard no sound. Kneeling, he struck a match. The dead man was Hawkins. Hawkins had been wounded in the exchange of gunfire, but despairing of getting him away, somebody had put a gun to his head and blown his brains out. Now men were coming from the cantina. Padilla and Pablo came up. Bowdrie motioned to the dead man and the obvious powder burns. “Looks like they killed him so he couldn’t talk,” he commented. Which was foolish of them, for their actions spoke as loudly and clearly as anything Hawkins might have said. Their killing of him implied Hawkins would or might have had something to say. It pointed a finger at his killers and at the K-Bar.
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