by Braun, Matt;
Laird knew the delay might very well prove disastrous to his neighbors. They lacked the manpower to protect their herds—even their homes, in many instances—and the bandidos had stepped up the tempo of attack. But he was only marginally concerned about Santa Guerra itself. Security was tighter than ever, and his vaqueros were spoiling for a fight. Watchful if not overly alarmed, he felt confident the raiders wouldn’t dare stick their heads into a hornet’s nest.
In that, Laird dreadfully underestimated his opponent. Juan Cordoba borrowed a trick from the Indians, and sent three columns of raiders fording the Rio Grande at full moon. Texans called it a Comanche moon, for in times past the warriors favored brilliant moonlit nights when raiding tejano horse herds. It served the bandidos no less admirably as they rode north and split into dozens of small parties, each comprised of four or five men. The plan was simple, yet coordinated with elaborate attention to detail. For Juan Cordoba enjoyed an advantage never dreamt of by Comanche horse thieves. Into the ranks of his bravos he had recruited a man who was once esteemed by all of Los Lerdenos. A man of bitterness and hate, and one who was intimately familiar with the clockwork precisor of Henry Liard’s vaquero patrols.
By midnight the raiders had infiltrated Santa Guerra, slipping past the patrols, and regrouped once again into columns as they closed on the headquarters compound. They came like dusky shadows along the treelined creek, and while greatly outnumbered, their tactical advantage—the element of surprise—promised to make it a costly night for Los Lerdenos.
Shortly after one o’clock, three men slithered over the compound wall and set fire to the horse stable. Within moments the building was engulfed in flames, and squeals from the terror-stricken horses could be heard a mile away. Vaqueros poured from their homes in their nightclothes, forgetting all else in their rush to save El Patron’s prized breeding stock. Among the first to reach the blazing stable was Ramon Morado, and an instant later Laird hurried from the main house tugging on his pants. Shouting commands above the raging inferno, they formed the vaqueros into two lines and quickly organized a bucket brigade.
Waiting patiently, the raiders bided their time as the crowd thickened around the stable. Soon the vaqueros were frantically engaged in dousing the fire, and the flames silhouetted their every movement within the confines of the cuadrilla. Suddenly the night came alive with the yellowish flash of gunfire, and lead hissed across the compound. Vaqueros fell right and left, clutching their wounds, and those left unscathed ran for cover. One glance was enough to confirm Laird’s worst suspicions. Their attackers had them scissored in a crossfire, and unless something was done fast, every man in the cuadrilla would be killed.
“Dispersad, hombres!” Laird shouted over the roar of flames and rifle fires. “Scatter! Get your guns and form along the walls. Andale! Andale!”
The vaqueros leaped to their feet and ran at his command. Scuttling crablike across the open compound, they dodged and weaved in headlong flight toward the adobe structures. The gunfire increased in tempo as they ran, upending several men before they reached the sanctuary of the buildings. Moments later, they boiled from their homes, clutching rifles and bandoliers as they darted toward the walls. Laird emerged from the main house with a shotgun and shell belt. But even as he crossed the porch, the bandidos suddenly switched tactics.
One band of raiders along the south wall, and another positioned at the east wall, poured a devastating barrage into the vaqueros, forcing them to seek cover. Simultaneously the third group, who were still mounted, stormed the front gate and burst into the compound. With the defenders pinned down, there was only scattered opposition to their assault, and they rode in a direct line toward the main house.
To Ramon, who had ducked into the blacksmith shop with several vaqueros, their purpose was immediately apparent. The riders formed an execution squad, and their mission was to kill the patron. Heedless of the crossfire, Ramon gathered the vaqueros in the smithy and led them in a rush across the open cuadrilla.
Taken unawares, Laird was caught on the porch steps, with no place to run. He stood his ground, bullets thudding all around him as the horsemen charged forward, then leveled the shotgun and triggered both barrels. A double load of buckshot, fanning out in a hail of lead, swept the lead riders from their saddles and dumped three horses at the head of the column. The charge broke apart, splintered by the tangle of men and horses, and the raiders skidded to a halt before the house. Laird retreated up the steps, ejecting spent shells and hurriedly reloading the shotgun. But as he gained the porch, a rifle slug smacked into his shoulder and sent him reeling backward. His knees buckled, then another bullet struck him in the side, and he sprawled motionless on the porch. Trudy appeared in the doorway with a carbine, levering round after round into the riders. Her fire was murderous at point-blank range; three men were killed and another horse went down under the steady blast of her carbine. The sight of a gringa—cooly hammering shot after shot into their ranks—momentarily stunned the other raiders. There was an instant of hesitation, the attack blunted, then they recovered and turned their fire on Trudy.
Suddenly the bandido leader emerged from the melee of men and horses. Even as the first slugs splintered the doorway around Trudy, he spurred his mount to the forefront of the fight. Caught in the crossfire, his move seemed suicidal, but he ignored the maelstrom of lead, waving his sombrero overhead and shouting frantically.
“Alto! Alto! Vamos, hombres! Vamonos!”
Trudy froze, oblivious to the gunfire, slowly lowered her carbine. She watched with a look of tragic bewilderment as Roberto rode back and forth, cursing the bandidos, ordering them to withdraw. Her mouth opened, fixed in a silent scream, and the sudden horror of comprehension jolted her into rude awakening. It was no nightmare. It was truly him. Roberto!
Her Roberto!
While Trudy stood petrified, there was a moment of confusion. Roberto’s shouts were punctuated by scattered gunshots and squealing horses, all blended together in a fury of noise. Several raiders had already wheeled their mounts, but those nearest the house raked the porch with one last volley. Even as they fired, Angela slipped through the doorway and ran toward her husband. Bullets pocked the front of the house, shattering windows on both sides of the door, and a slug meant for Trudy caught Angela in mid-stride. A surprised look came over her face, then a crimson dot blossomed wider across her nightgown and she slumped gently to the porch. Trudy screamed, dropping the carbine, and rushed outside as her mother fell.
Suddenly Ramon and his vaqueros appeared on the raiders’ flank. Their rifles barked, spitting streaks of flame, drawing ever closer in a staccato roar of gunfire. Before the bandidos could get themselves sorted out, another half-dozen were blown from their saddles. Their leader was cursing and screaming, urging them to retreat; his horse reared and he fought the reins, outlined an instant against the blaze of light from the fire. Ramon halted, eyes wide and gaping, thunderstruck by the sight of his son. The color drained from his face, and a sense of rage swept over him. All thought suspended, acting on reflex alone, he threw the rifle to his shoulder, blindly triggered a shot. The slug went wild, cutting a furrow across the flank of Roberto’s horse. The animal bolted, and before Ramon could get off another shot, the raiders were gone, pounding toward the gate at a gallop. Then, as abruptly as it began, the battle ceased. There were scattered shots as bandidos along the walls withdrew and, moments later, the fading sound of hoofbeats.
An eerie silence settled over the compound. The stables burned out of control, and vaqueros stood silhouetted against the flames, too dazed to move. Somewhere in the night a wounded man groaned, crying out for help, then the roof of the stables buckled inward and the building collapsed in a shower of sparks and fiery timber.
Ramon slowly collected his senses, lowered the hammer on his rifle, and turned toward the house. He saw Trudy bent over her father, the servants peeking out the door, and he took off running. As he mounted th
e steps he spotted Angela, lying small and crumpled, the front of her nightgown soaked with blood. He halted, one foot on the porch, glanced at Trudy with a look of stark disbelief.
“La Madama?”
“Muerto.”
“El Patron?”
“Alive, but he’s hurt bad. I can’t stop the bleeding.”
Ramon dropped to his knees beside Laird, who was bare-chested and still unconscious. The shoulder wound appeared clean, drilled through below the collarbone. But the wound in his side, slightly above the belt line, was inflamed and puckered, seeping blood.
“Graciadios!” Ramon whirled on the servants. “A knife! Boiling water! Pronto, imbecils. Pronto!” The women jumped, hurrying inside, and he turned to Trudy. “I must take the bullet, and quickly. It is the only way.”
Trudy’s features were grim, eyes dulled. “Will he live?”
“Si, nina mia. Con el favor de Dios.”
Laird moaned and his eyelids fluttered open. He attempted to rise, clutched at the pain in his side, then allowed Trudy to ease his head down on the porch. He was groggy, but his vision slowly cleared and his gaze shifted to Ramon.
“How bad is it?”
“The bite of a flea, Patron. You will live forever.”
“And the others ... everybody all right?”
Ramon flicked a warning glance at Trudy. “Nothing of consequence, Patron. We drove the bandidos off with only minor losses.”
“Bueno. Bloody bastards! That’ll teach ‘em not ...”
Laird’s voice trailed off and his eyes glazed. His lips moved but there was no sound, and after a moment, his eyelids drooped closed. Then he slept.
Chapter 24
The funeral services were simple. Though there was no priest on Santa Guerra, it was necessary, because of the heat, that a mass burial be quickly arranged. Carpenters spent most of the morning hammering together rough coffins, and by early afternoon, the dead had been laid out in their finest garments. An hour later Angela and thirty-four vaqueros were lowered into the ground in the graveyard north of the compound, Ramon Morado delivered a halting prayer, and Laird, despite his wounds, read a few passages from the Bible. Then it was over, and the gravediggers were left to complete their work.
The wailing of widows and mothers grew even louder as dirt was shoveled onto the caskets. But there were no tears from either the patron or his daughter. With Ramon in the lead and Trudy at his side, Laird was carried away on a stretcher. The little procession slowly made its way back to the house, and though Trudy held his hand the entire time, neither of them spoke. Her eyes were sunken with fatigue, and her features were heavy and smudged, drawn with grief. Until this morning, when she’d bathed and dressed her mother’s body, she had known nothing of death. Now it was a mystery no longer, and her tears had been replaced by a hollow ache, some deeper and very final sense of loss.
Laird had a tight grip on himself, teeth clenched against the pain, and he kept his sorrow hidden. But his expression was murderous, eyes garnet with rage. As they crossed the cuadrilla, he turned his head and stared at the charred ruins of the stable. Copperdust and five brood mares had perished in the fire. The thought sickened him, and yet, however senseless the act, it was not an irreversible loss. The stallion had sired many fine sons, some of them already at stud, and the bloodline would continue. For Los Lerderios it was an altogether different matter. There was no way to bring back the dead vaqueros—or Angela—and he felt stricken with guilt. By mere chance, he had survived while the attempt on his life had brought about the wanton slaughter of innocent men ... and his wife, who in those last moments had braved gunfire to come to his aid. Even now, though Trudy had told him about it shortly before dawn, the thought of Angela on that porch shriveled his stomach into a hard knot of rage. He promised himself that retribution would be swift, and paid in kind.
One thing Trudy hadn’t mentioned was Roberto Morado. She simply couldn’t bring herself to tell either her father or Ramon that she had identified the bandido leader. Though Roberto had saved her life, he was nonetheless responsible for the death of her mother. She felt the circumstances were extenuating, but in no way forgivable. Roberto had also tried to kill her father. Yet, while she deplored his part in the raid, she couldn’t wholly condemn him. She loved him still—even now she was convinced he’d been unjustly banished from Santa Guerra—and after last night she understood an emotion she’d never before experienced. She understood what it was to hate, and how it could drive men to kill. She too wanted Juan Cordoba dead, and given the chance she would gladly have pulled the trigger herself.
Unknown to Trudy, however, her father was painfully aware that Roberto had participated in the raid. Shortly before the funeral, Ramon had dutifully reported the details to Laird. He felt obligated to inform the patron that it was Roberto who had led the execution squad. Purposely or not, the death of La Madama was brought about by his son, and for that he could never forgive himself. Nor could he excuse his miserable shooting in those last moments. It was his son, and therefore his responsibility, and he felt personally cheated in not having killed the traidor. After discussing it at length, both Laird and Ramon had decided it was best to keep the matter to themselves. There was nothing to be gained in telling Trudy and upsetting her further. Yet the men were in agreement about Roberto. He had cast his lot with Juan Cordoba, and like the bandit chieftain his life would be forfeited.
Nearing the house, Ramon suddenly stiffened and barked out a warning. A column of riders had been passed through the front gate, and the guards were signaling all clear. But Ramon was wary after last night’s raid; he hurried the stretcher-bearers up the steps, intent on getting Trudy and the patron out of sight. Laird twisted around, watching the riders over his shoulder, and caught a glint of metal in the sunlight. One arm was in a sling, but he raised the other hand, halting the vaqueros, and spoke to Ramon.
“Alto! Get me off this thing and on my feet.”
“That would be unwise, Patron. Better to have you inside until we question these men.”
Trudy nodded agreement. “He’s right, Pa. You’re in no condition—”
“Don’t argue! Just do as you’re told. Pronto!”
Ramon glanced at Trudy, then shrugged and motioned to the vaqueros. They lowered the stretcher, gently lifted Laird to his feet, and assisted him to the edge of the porch. His legs were wobbly, but he slumped against the banister, supporting himself with his good arm, and waved them away. The vaqueros spread out along the porch, with Ramon in the center, their pistols drawn. Trudy stepped inside, hurried back with her carbine, and positioned herself in the doorway.
Several moments later the riders reined up before the house. Their leader swung down out of the saddle and walked toward the porch. He was a wiry man, of medium height, with pallid features and the quiet manner of a bookkeeper. But his eyes were a peculiar shade of gray, cold and hard, and he assessed the situation at a glance. Halting at the bottom of the steps, he waited, allowing the vaqueros to inspect the badge pinned on his shirt, then nodded at Laird.
“You must be Hank Laird.”
“Aye, that I am.”
“My name’s McNelly. Captain L.H. McNelly, First Ranger Battalion.”
“You’d be the Texas Rangers, then?”
“That’s correct. We were ordered down here by the governor after you sent a request for help.”
“Well, you’re a little late, Captain McNelly. And I’ve no need of your help any longer.”
“Sorry, Mr. Laird, I don’t follow you.”
“Why, it’s simple enough. In case you hadn’t noticed, we were raided last night.”
“Yes, I saw ...”
“You saw nothing! We’ve just finished burying thirty-four men and my wife. Shall I repeat that, Captain McNelly—my wife! So climb on your horse and ride on back to Austin. You’re of no use to us now.”
“I can
’t do that, Mr. Laird. You have my deepest condolences—”
“Damn your condolences!”
“—but I’ve been ordered to clear the border of outlaws, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Laird scowled, glancing past him at the Rangers. There were some forty men in the column, all of them lean and tough, cold-eyed as their leader, obviously seasoned fighting men. After a moment, Laird grunted and shook his head with contempt.
“Do yourself a favor, McNelly. Go back to chasing bank robbers. You haven’t enough men for the job.”
“We’re accustomed to long odds, Mr. Laird.”
“Then I’ll put it another way. I’m going after Cordoba and his gang of butchers myself, and I’ll not having you spoiling the game. Now, is that plain enough, or do I have to spell it out?”
McNelly looked down and studied the ground, then his pale eyes came level. “I can’t let you do that, Mr. Laird. I’m the law here now, and if there’s any fighting to be done my boys will do it.”
“Oh, it’s the law, is it? Don’t make me laugh, McNelly. I do as I please—always have and always will—and you’ll not stop me.”
“No, Mr. Laird. You won’t budge off this ranch. We’re going to handle Cordoba my way, and if you don’t like it then I’m afraid you’ll just have to sit on it.”
“By Judas!” Laird exploded. “I’ll not take orders from any man.”