Blood Red Star

by Shorty Gunn

  Chapter Twelve

  After Tyge Fan’s body was removed from the de la Vega home, Captain Longstreet, Marshal Whitman and Little Hawk searched the abandoned cabin Cort and Red had stayed in. They’d left Rita hysterical with grief collapsed in her mother’s arms. Skip Krago, ever the ‘good citizen’, had directed them to this location too. Once the trio was satisfied the Kellers had indeed lived there, they stepped back outside discussing their situation. It clearly became a serious predicament for at least one of them.

  ‘I had hoped we’d finish off all three of these men right here in Mongollon,’ the captain took off his hat wiping sweat from his brow. ‘Instead, we only got Fan. There’s no telling where the other two on the run went now. I’m going to have to seriously consider ending, at least for now, my part in going any further. My men have been pushed to their limit and so have I. Sooner or later these Kellers will show up someplace else again. Where, only God knows. If and when they do, myself or some other cavalry officer will go after them again. Their kind never changes. They’ll rob and kill drawing attention to themselves. There is no doubt in my mind they’ll both end up hanging because of it. I’ve done all I can. It’s time for me to turn back.’

  ‘Have you lost all your backbone?’ Whitman walked up face to face challenging the officer. ‘You can’t quit now and run like a jackrabbit for the fort. We’ve already killed Fan, and nearly got the Kellers too. We’ve run them all the way down here and now is the time to finish the job, not turn tail and give up. There’s no place left for them to go. You abandon me now and you’ll never live it down!’

  ‘I told you weeks ago if we didn’t catch up to them soon, I’d have to turn back. There’s no one “abandoning” anyone. I stayed on because you said your man could track them down. He did, but we only got one of them. From what Mr Krago told me, the only thing south of here is the Mexican border, if that’s the way they went. He says it’s another hard week’s ride away. I’ve stretched my men and supplies to the limit. Can’t you understand that?’

  ‘Will you listen to reason? The Kellers are no more than a few hours ahead of us. We’ve never been this close to them before. We might be able to run them down if we stop standing here arguing about it and ride out after them right now. What’s another four or five days after the weeks we’ve spent getting this far!’

  Longstreet turned away from the marshal nearly shouting in his face. He was tired of Whitman’s constant badgering and liked it even less in front of his men. It was equally bad for their moral, if they had any left. He walked to his horse retrieving a canteen and taking a long slow drink as he struggled about what to do next. What if the marshal was right and they could finally run the Kellers down. The thought that worried him most was he’d be back at Fort Jackson, admitting defeat, while Whitman and his sidekick possibly rode down the brothers, bringing them back in handcuffs. It would look like he’d given up when success was within his grasp. That would be a black mark on his military record too risky to chance. The marshal stood a few yards away, hands on his hips, waiting for an answer. The captain pushed the cork back in the canteen top, taking a deep breath before turning around. He tightened his belt straightening his shoulders.

  ‘I’ll take my men as far as the border, and that’s absolutely the end of it. If we don’t close in on the brothers by then, I’m done with it!’

  ‘All right, let’s get to it. We’ve already wasted enough time standing here.’ Whitman turned for his horse with Little Hawk right on his heels.

  Cort and his brother could not help but notice the land changing as they pushed themselves and their worn-out horses farther south each day under the relentless hammer of a blistering sun. Rough stone cliffs and mountains tinged in tall pines surrounding Mongollon gave way to lower, treeless hills and brushy flats devoid of even a drop of water. Sweat soaked and bone tired, the pair kept riding each day speaking little, hats pulled low against the blinding glare, squinting ahead for some small piece of shade to stop and rest in. At night they built no fire, too tired to try, always fearful if they were still being followed someone behind might see the distant blink of flickering light. Rolling up in their one wool blanket, the cruel heat of day suddenly turned into chilling night as they struggled through fitful sleep. Day after day they drove themselves up again, always on the move, always angling south, for another twelve hours of mind-numbing heat.

  In misty shadows before another dawn, Cort woke sitting up wrapping the thin blanket around his shoulders, trying to count how many days he and Red had been struggling to reach the border. Was this seven or eight? He’d lost count and couldn’t remember. Hungry, tired, trying to gird himself for another day’s ride, he looked off to the south as the sky brightened. For a moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He rubbed them before trying to focus again. It looked like the tiniest halo of light that was not dawn. He slowly got to his feet studying the strange apparition. It had to be some kind of light still hidden beyond undulating hills ahead. He shook Red awake.

  ‘What . . . is it?’ Red sleepily lifted himself up on one elbow. ‘Time to go?’

  ‘Look out there up ahead. I think I see some kind of light, but I don’t know what?’

  Red grunted, getting to his feet, following Cort’s outstretched arm. ‘Ahh . . . it can’t be any fire. There’s nothing in this desert to burn except rocks and mesquite.’

  ‘Let’s saddle up and head for it.’ Cort turned for the horses.

  The brothers rode ahead until the undulating land eventually opened up to a long downhill slope with an expansive view across miles of desert flats stretching far away to a distant line of mountains low along the skyline. Halfway between mountains and riders they could just make out a cluster of low, flat-topped buildings still many miles away, the first sign of civilization they’d seen in nearly two weeks. Tiny pinpoints of flickering light from coal oil lamps was the source of the glow Cort had seen.

  ‘We’ve made it to someplace,’ Red said.

  ‘Yes, but where? Are we still in America or Mexico?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out. We can finally get these horses and ourselves a good feed and watering. My belt buckle is pulled up so far I had to cut a new notch in it to keep my pants up.’

  Riding closer to the modest size community the first thing the Kellers noticed was almost all buildings were made of either adobe or a few of stone. Entering the first dirt street they started down a row of dark store fronts still closed. All signs painted on their front walls were written in Mexican. Cort reined to a stop turning to his brother.

  ‘From the looks of this, I’d say we’d finally made it into Mexico. If I’m right, we’re home free, brother!’

  Red leaned forward on the saddle horn, rubbing his tired face with both hands, turning to look down the empty street. ‘I just hope you’re right, because neither me or this horse of mine could have made it another day out there.’ He pulled a thumb over his shoulder, at the desert growing in dawn’s light. ‘That’s about as close to giving up as I’ve ever been.’

  ‘Somewhere back out there Whitman and whoever might still be with him could be coming on. If he is, it won’t do him any good now.’

  ‘That desert might have ate them up by now. It damned near did us. Right now we have to find a stable for these horses, and get something in our bellies too, but there’s no one out here on the street. Where is everyone?’

  Cort looked farther up the dirt street pointing to the lone figure of a man wearing a wide sombrero, walking toward them. ‘Here comes someone. Maybe we’ll get some answers.’

  The man stopped, curiously looking up at the riders, tipping his hat, but said nothing. Their dusty, whiskered faces and rib thin horses told him the gringos must have crossed the desert to get here.

  ‘Hello,’ Cort tried a greeting. ‘Can you tell me if we’re in Mexico or not?’

  The man held up both hands shaking his head. ‘No comprendo, señor.’

  Cort grimaced, turning to
Red. ‘You know any Mexican? I sure don’t.’

  ‘Not hardly, maybe just a word or two.’

  ‘Give it a try. We’ve got to find out something.’

  Red lifted his arm pointing outside of town to the north. ‘United States,’ he said slowly, before pointing down at the ground. ‘Mexico?’

  ‘Ah, sí, Mexico!’ The man smiled nodding his head vigorously.

  ‘Looks like we made it across the border, all right. But we still need to talk to someone who can understand English. Let me think a minute on what else I can ask.’ Red pushed his hat back on his head searching for another word that might connect. ‘OK, I got one.’ He looked down at his newfound friend carefully mouthing the word. ‘Alcalde?’ he asked.

  ‘Sí.’ the man pointed up the street to a large stone building.

  ‘Gracias,’ Red thanked him.

  ‘What did you say?’ Cort questioned.

  ‘I asked him if this town had a mayor. He says yes, in that building up the street. Let’s get up there and see if he’s right.’

  ‘Adios.’ Red tipped his hat before the brothers urged their horses farther down the dirt street.

  The Kellers spent the next hour sitting on the building’s steps waiting for someone to show up, idly glancing up and down the street until Cort finally broke the monotony. ‘Not much goes around here, wherever here is.’

  ‘No, it sure don’t, but maybe it’s best there isn’t. After what we’ve had to ride through nothing don’t sound too bad. Hey, wait a minute. Here comes someone,’ Red pointed.

  Angelo Azuar rode closer sitting astride a skinny donkey with oversized ears. He wore a large sombrero with a shock of snow white hair cascading down his temples and a large, bushy mustache to match. Pulling to a stop in front of the building he slid off the little animal tying it off to a hitching post, eyeing the Americanos as he did so. His rotund middle was kept in check by a wide, red sash tied at the waist. His bare feet were shod in leather sandals. One look was all Azuar needed to see his two guests were drawn thin and so were their horses.

  ‘Good morning, amigos,’ he greeted the brothers coming up. ‘I am surprised to have guests this early in the morning.’

  ‘We’re just glad we found someone who can speak English,’ Cort extended his hand. ‘We weren’t sure we would.’

  ‘Let us go inside. The sol will be getting higher, and heat will soon follow. I don’t see many Americanos, here. The desert keeps them to the north. You look like you found out why, no?’

  Inside the mayor’s office the brothers dropped into leather chairs. Cort was first to speak. ‘Where exactly are we? We’re not that sure yet.’

  ‘You are in Puerto Palomas de Villa. Your people across the border simply call it Palomas. You didn’t know you were in Mexico?’

  ‘There was nothing to tell us that. No sign, no fence. We’ve been riding for two weeks, almost out of food and short on water. The heat is pretty bad on men and horses too.’

  ‘Sí. That is the way of the desert. Can I ask what brings you on such a dangerous journey here to Palomas?’

  The brothers traded quick glances, Red nodding for Cort to answer. ‘We . . . ah . . . had some Indian trouble in New Mexico Territory,’ he tried to sound convincing. ‘They chased us south, and we thought if we could cross the border, maybe they wouldn’t follow us across the desert too.’

  ‘Apaches?’ Azuar asked, already suspecting the story could not be the truth.

  ‘Yes, Apaches. Once they come after you, you either have to outride them, or take on the whole Apache Nation. My brother and I didn’t stand a chance against them, so we took to the desert hoping we could make it across.’

  ‘We sometimes see a few Apaches here, but not many. As you two learned, the desert keeps most of them al norte. What few do come to trade for flour and sometimes cloth. They also want guns, but we have very few here. Most are owned by peasants or farmers, just old shotguns and pistols. Do you plan on staying with us long?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Cort answered, and this time he was telling the truth. ‘We’ll just have to see how things work out over the next week or maybe two. Then we can decide.’

  The alcalde pondered Cort’s words for a moment. He was curious about these two gringos and began forming an idea to see if he could learn more about them. He leaned forward with a suggestion and offer. ‘I have a little ranchero just outside of town. I also keep a few vaqueros there to tend my vacunos, or what your people call cattle.’

  ‘Cattle, out here?’ Red interrupted.

  ‘Sí, not all this land is like what you and your brother rode across. South of here there is enough well water and brush to feed my animals. I also have what you call a bunk-house, for my men to stay in. If you would like to be my guests while you make up your mind what you will do, you can stay there. What do you say to this?’

  The Kellers looked at each other in amazement. Azuar’s gracious offer caught them completely by surprise. It took a moment before Cort could respond. ‘That’s mighty nice of you. We don’t even know your name to say thanks.’

  ‘I am called Angelo Azuar, amigos. And you?’

  ‘I’m Cort Keller, and this is my brother Red. We’d both like to take you up on your offer. We’ve have no place else to go or stay. It would help us a lot.’

  ‘Then it is settled. I’ll take you out there now, then come back to Palomas. Let us go.’

  Four days later far north from Palomas, at the beginning of the desert flats, Captain Longstreet, his line of tired cavalrymen and Marshal Whitman, pulled to a halt staring across endless miles of rock and sand ahead dancing in waves of noon day heat. A short distance in front Little Hawk also reined to a stop, his eyes studying the ground squinting against the glare. After a moment he pulled his horse around back to the line of men.

  ‘Well, are we still on them?’ Whitman demanded.

  ‘They start across here,’ the Crow tracker pointed over his shoulder.

  ‘How long ago, can you tell?’ the captain cut in.

  ‘Maybe . . . four-five days ago.’

  ‘That’s nearly a week, if he’s right,’ the alarm in Longstreet’s voice was obvious. ‘You told me back on Mongollon, they were only hours ahead of us. How did they get a week out front!’

  ‘There’s only two of them,’ Whitman quickly spoke up. ‘They can ride faster and don’t have to stop as often as we do. They don’t have fifteen horses and men to take care of. If they went out into this desert like Little Hawk says they did, we have to continue after them. There’s no other choice after coming this far.’

  ‘Oh, yes there is, Marshal,’ Longstreet countered. ‘Even you admit you don’t really know exactly where the border is, and I certainly don’t either. For all we know we could be crossing it right here or at least not very far out there. I cannot provoke an international incident taking United States military men into Mexico, for any reason. And certainly not to run down a couple of robbers and murderers. On the American side of the border is one thing. Crossing into Mexico, is quite another.’

  ‘Have you forgotten these two men robbed your own government pay wagon, and shot down two troopers after that?’

  ‘No, I’m not. But I’m not going any further putting my reputation and career on the line when we have virtually no chance of closing in on them for a week or more, as you said we would. I’ve taken my men as far as I’m going to. If you want to continue on into who knows where, you’ll have to go without me. I’ll also tell you that your insane drive to kill these two men has turned this entire trip into your own personal vendetta. It even goes beyond your duty to your badge. You’ve made it an obsession, and a dangerous one for all involved. I’d suggest you follow me and my men back to Fort Jackson, where you can rest, regroup and get fresh supplies and horses, if you insist on continuing. For my part I’m done with it.’

  Whitman’s face turned red with rage. No one had ever talked to him like that. If Longstreet had been any other man than a military officer, he wou
ld have instantly gun whipped him to the ground, or worse. Instead he leaned nose to nose with the captain, his words spit out through clenched teeth.

  ‘I know a coward when I see one, and that’s what I’m looking at right now. You take your men and run for home. I don’t need you to finish off the Kellers. Go on, get out of here!’

  Longstreet saw the insanity in Whitman’s eyes. He did not answer. It was hopeless to try. He turned away mounting his horse without a look back, shouting orders as the line of cavalrymen began moving away while the marshal and Little Hawk watched them go. As the figures grew smaller in distance, Whitman turned to the Crow tracker.

  ‘We have enough food and water to take that on?’ he nodded out toward sandy mesquite flats shimmering in waves of heat.

  Little Hawk nodded. ‘Maybe four days water – two days food.’

  ‘Then we’d better get to it.’ The marshal turned for his horse without uttering another word.

  Outside of Paloma, Cort and his brother sat in shade under a rickety porch in front of the bunkhouse at the Azuar ranchero watching several Mexican cowboys mount horses riding out for an afternoon checking on cattle. As the last vaqueros rode out of sight, Red got to his feet walking a few steps to lean on one of the porch uprights, thinking out loud.

  ‘We’ve only been here a little more than a week, and I still can’t get used to being in Mexico doing this. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I guess I do. It is different from anyplace we’ve ever been, but a whole lot better than being on the run across the border wondering if you’re going to catch a bullet in your back when you least expect it.’

  Red snorted, a grim smile playing across his face. ‘Yeah, I can’t argue about that. But somehow having to leave our own country to do so still seems strange to me. Azuar is a decent enough man to take us in like he did. I just have to wonder if we’ll ever be able to go back home? I’ve been thinking a lot about Tennessee since we got here. Mom, Dad, our old place and the whole family, or whatever is left of them these days. Maybe instead of crossing the border, we should have rode east trying to get back there?’