The bearded spokesman shook his head and stood up. “We’re pullin’ out now, Bodine. You been warned.”
“And so have you,” Bodine reminded them all. “Next time we meet, have your hands full of guns.”
One by one the outlaws filed past the pegs, looped their gunbelts over their shoulders and walked out. None of them looked back.
When the last one was gone, the barkeep let out a long sigh. “Boys, I just aged ten years in the last five minutes. I would have bet my last dollar this place was gonna bust wide open.”
“You got anything to eat here?” Bodine asked.
“Beef and boiled potatoes. Mex woman in the back’s a right good cook.”
They ordered another beer and some food and sat down at a table, letting the tension of riding across Apache country and then facing a room filled with gunslicks slowly ebb from them.
“Decision time, brother,” Bodine said, rolling a cigarette.
“A promise is a promise, brother. I have never gone back on my word and neither have you.”
“We’ll be riding looking for one ambush after another,” he reminded Sam.
“Yes.”
The sounds of the hardcases leaving town came to them as the knot of riders walked their horses up the wide street. They were riding west, taking the stagecoach road toward Ehrenberg.
“It’s confusing to them,” Sam said, as the last of the hardcases rode west, out of town. “They are men totally without honor, so they cannot possibly comprehend what we are doing.”
“And what are we doing?” Bodine softly posed the question, his eyes on his brother’s face.
“Running away from a sight that has been branded into our brains.”
“Are you saying it will be with us always?”
“It will fade as the years pass. Much more easily for you than for me, I’m afraid.”
Bodine knew what he meant. For in the Rosebuds, Sam had not only seen his father die in the Custer fight, but with it, a way of life that both knew would never return. “When you’re ready to go back to our homelands, brother, let me know.”
“It will be a long time coming.”
The bringing of the food put an end to conversation for a time, for in the West, eating was serious business. When the sharper edges of their appetite had been blunted, and they were working on their second pot of coffee, Matt broke the silence.
“I think we had best not follow the stage road to Ehrenberg. Let’s cut north, between the Plomosa Mountains and the Granite Wash and come in that way.”
Sam chewed reflectively for a moment. “You know anything about that country?”
“Just about as much as I know about women.”
Sam shook his head, a mournful expression on his face. “If that’s the case, we’re lost before we start!”
Chapter 23
Possible sources of water had been pointed out to them by the barkeep just before they pulled out the following morning. And they were warned that there were still hostiles in the land they would be riding through. Not all the Indians had chosen to be herded onto the reservation next to the Colorado River.
The men ate a quiet and leisurely breakfast before leaving. If any of Lake and Porter’s men were Iying in ambush somewhere along the stagecoach road, Bodine and Sam wanted them to remain as uncomfortable as possible for as long as possible.
They left the no-name town and headed north.
At Cunningham Wash they cut west, riding through the dry emptiness of the Plomosa Mountains, Cactus Plain to the north. They rode with Winchesters across the saddle horn, always alert for trouble, from the Indians or outlaws. They saw no living beings, friendly or otherwise, as they came down the west side of the Dome Rock Mountains and picked up the stagecoach road about fifteen miles outside of Ehrenberg, following that on into town.
“Yeah, they was here,” the marshal told the trail-weary men. “But they didn’t cause no trouble. They was right nice and po-lite. Real gentlemen, all of ’em.”
“Which way’d they go?”
“South, toward Yuma.” The marshal fixed the pair with a hard eye. “You’d be the gunfighter, Bodine. And you’d be Sam Two Wolves, right?”
“That’s right.”
“They said you’d be along. Yuma’s a tough town, boys; they ain’t put up with no crap down there.”
“We don’t intend to start any.”
“That’s good. Right proud to hear that.” His expression changed from hard to curious. “I overheard something from one of them hardcases. Didn’t mean nothin’ to me. Still don’t. Does the Virgin Princess mean anything to you boys.”
“Yes,” Sam replied. “It’s a slave ship.”
“Is that right? Well, this hardcase was whispering something about meeting up with it and somebody named Morgan.”
They chatted for a few more minutes, then thanked the marshal and headed for a nearby saloon. They didn’t have to look far; two or three steps in any direction would have taken them through batwings.
Over a beer and food in the coolness of the adobe structure, the men talked in low tones.
“You pegged it right when you said they had no honor,” Bodine said. “All that talk back at that no-name town was just that: talk. They knew all along they were back in the slaving business. You heard what the marshal said about there being only a dozen of them but they bought supplies enough for a hundred men and wagons and mules.”
“Yes. And as they use up the supplies, they’ll fill that space with stolen children . . . girls. But they’re not going to find many girls in this area, brother.”
“No. I think that ‘going to Yuma’ business was a lot of crap.”
Sam held up a hand. “Maybe not. Maybe they do plan on going to Yuma, pretending to be hauling freight, and then cutting across into California, staying close to the Mexican border, raiding small farms and ranches as they go. How far across to the ocean is it?”
Matt shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, brother.”
They asked the barkeep.
“Oh, ’bout a hundred an’ fifty miles, I reckon. I ain’t never been there personal.”
“Do we check out Yuma?”
“We’ll leave in the morning.”
* * *
As they pulled out before dawn, both were thinking that if Yuma was any worse than Ehrenberg it was a hell-hole. They were leaving behind them a town where all water had to be hauled from the muddy Colorado; where four to five inches of dust lay in the streets, and where flies and other insects swarmed everywhere, biting and stinging and covering food almost as soon as it hit the table. Not only was it a nuisance, it was a health hazard.
They followed the river south and at a tiny four building town about twenty-five miles south of Ehrenberg, they found their suspicions to be reality.
“I sure did see them wagons,” the barkeep said, wiping off the bar with a dirty rag. “It was an odd sight, too.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
“All them sleepin’ kids. Well, I say all of them. ’Bout half a dozen of them in one wagon. I ’spect the other wagons had kids in them, too.”
“Sleeping? All of them?”
“Ever’ last one of them. All girls, too. I don’t think I was ’posed to see ’em, neither. Made one of them hard-lookin’ hombres mad. Then he kinda forced a grin and said they was totin’ them kids to an orphanage as soon as they dumped the supplies in Yuma. I didn’t think no more about it ’til you fellers asked.”
“Did they buy anything in town?”
“Let me think. Yeah. Yeah, they did. They bought all the laudanum Riley had over to the general store.”
* * *
“Bastards!” Bodine spat the word. “They’re keeping those girls drugged during the day and probably covered with a tarp so they can’t be seen.”
“But where did they get them?”
“They probably had them all along; all the time were making that noble speech to us. Probably been stealing them as they rode west.”
“And now? . . .”
“We know the girls are all right. Unhappy and scared, but unhurt. We go busting up in there, and some of them are sure to get hurt in the gunfire. Let’s wait and see what they do next.”
They followed the tracks south, staying well back, as the wagon train followed the meandering route of the Colorado. Both felt the wagons would not enter Yuma, and several days later, their theory proved to be correct. About ten miles north of the town, the wagons pulled over and the men made camp. The two had to lay back for cover, but using field glasses, they could see through the distance as the outlaw size was strengthened by the arrival of a dozen riders, coming up from the south.
And they brought with them another group of girls. Even from their distant vantage point, both men could see that the girls appeared drugged by the way they moved.
“Now what?” Sam asked in a whisper, even though they were hundreds of yards away and a shout could not be heard from their location.
“Circle around and find the law in Yuma?” Bodine returned the softly-spoken words, then added, “Why are we whispering?”
“You can bet they’ve got papers of some sort,” Sam said. “After what we did to them on the border, they’ll be doubly cautious.”
“And they’ll probably have men in town watching the sheriff ’s office.”
“Right. So that leaves? . . .”
“Us,” Bodine finished it.
* * *
The wagons remained in place for another day. On the second day they were joined by other wagons and more outriders, bringing the force to about fifty men and twenty wagons.
“Figure three or four girls to a wagon,” Bodine said, “and that comes out to between sixty and eighty girls.”
Sam pointed to the south. Four riders were approaching the encampment. Lifting the field glasses, he picked out the badges pinned to the shirts of the riders. “Lawmen,” he said, handing the glasses to Bodine.
“Now we’ll see how well they’ve prepared,” Bodine muttered.
He watched as papers were presented to the lawmen, the papers inspected, the tarps pulled back, and the girls looked at.
“Probably telling the deputies that it’s easier on the girls to keep them sleepy,” Sam said. “Orphans aren’t given much of a break in your society.”
Bodine could not argue the point. His blood-brother was right.
Apparently satisfied that everything was on the up and up, the lawmen shook hands and rode away, back toward the south.
“Did you see any money change hands?” Sam asked.
“No. I don’t think they’re trying to buy anyone off. Those papers they’ve got are doing the trick. They finally got smart and had some documents forged. Brother, I’ve got a feeling that we’re looking at one tree in a big forest—if you know what I mean.”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking about that. Say they’re getting a thousand dollars a head for the girls. And say there are seventy-five girls down there. That’s seventy-five thousand dollars split among fifty or sixty men. It wouldn’t be worth their while. So I would have to conclude there are more girls either on the way, or being held prisoner close to the sea.”
“I pick the latter.”
“Yes. That would be the logical choice.” He smiled; it was too good to pass up. “You’re improving, Bodine. No telling what other great strides you’ll make over the years.”
Bodine switched to Cheyenne and told his brother how closely he resembled a toad.
* * *
Bodine headed south that day, riding for the Mexican border, leaving Sam to watch and to follow if the wagon train pulled out. He’d catch up with him if that was the case.
He did not stop in Yuma, instead riding for the border as hard as he dared push his horse. It was a hard ride for both rider and horse. At the border, he found a cantina and relaxed over strong Mexican beer, making friends with several of the men in the bar. After a time, he asked if any of them was acquainted with a Major Luis de Carrillo?
Their faces brightened. They all knew the major, and all stated that he was a very honorable man. Why did Bodine ask?
Matt told them about Porter and Lake and how he and Sam and Wellman and Laurie had rescued the children from the old fort.
They applauded the deed and their bravery and lifted their glasses in a toast. Then Matt told them about the wagon train north of the border.
They were horrified, for most Mexicans revere their children.
“How can we help?” they asked.
“Do you think you could find Major Carrillo?”
They could. The major and his men were in this part of Sonora now, helping to rid the country of outlaws and pistoleros. The major was no more than a day’s ride away.
Matt requested pen and paper and wrote out what was taking place and where he felt the wagon train was heading. He requested that the major and his men pace the wagon train on the Mexican side of the border, while he, Bodine, would ride back to where he had last seen the wagons and rejoin Sam.
A slim vaquero folded the paper and put it in a pouch. “I will find the major, Matt Bodine. God go with you and your brother on your journey to save those poor children.”
Matt traded horses in the town, getting a fine heavily muscled steeldust gelding that was built for traveling the rough country and was chomping at the bit, ready to go. Diablo was the animal’s name, and he liked Bodine, the smiling vaquero said.
“How can you tell?” Matt asked.
“Because you would have not have been able to get close to him if he didn’t. He is better than a dog at keeping watch while you rest. He will kill any person who approaches you. Vaya con dios, Matt Bodine.”
* * *
Sam had left Indian sign for Bodine, showing him when the wagons had pulled out and in what direction. They had crossed the river and headed into California. They had been gone for three days.
Bodine figured he could overtake them in a day and a half, for the wagons would be traveling at a much slower pace than a mounted rider.
He rode through a land virtually without water, following the tracks of the wagons and the hoofprints of Sam’s horses, which he knew well. The first couple of days out were the roughest, traveling on the southern edge of the Imperial Desert, and cutting south toward the Mexican border.
At the southernmost tip of East Mesa, Bodine caught up with Sam just at dusk.
“Any changes?” Bodine asked.
“None. But they know where the border is and they’re staying very close to it. You find Major Carrillo?”
“I sent him word. He shouldn’t be far behind us. I asked him to stay on his side of the border and when the time comes, we’ll push the wagon train into his territory.”
Sam arched one eyebrow. “There are two of us and about sixty of them. How do you propose to do that?”
Bodine grinned. “I don’t have the vaguest idea, brother.”
Chapter 24
Since following the wagons was a slow and tedious task, Sam had been stopping often along the way, making conversation with anyone who would talk to him and had something of value to share.
“There are water holes other than those known by Porter and Lake,” he told Bodine. “And there are little towns all along the route. Towns that the slavers will not enter for fear of being exposed.” He smiled. “But we can.”
“Indians?”
“Many tribes but not many Indians. Cuyapaipe, Manzanita, La Postas, Viejas, Campo, Los Coyotes . . . half a dozen other tribes. They present little danger now.”
“Back at the cantina, they told me about a town right on the border. Nobody really knows which side of the border it’s on. Major Carrillo is supposed to meet us there if at all possible.”
“Does it have a name?”
Bodine shrugged and drank the last of his coffee. “I don’t think so. It’s just a town. We ought to come up on
it tomorrow.”
* * *
Bodine spotted the major and a few of his men, sitting on benches in front of a cantina. They were all dressed in civilian clothes.
After a nod from the major, Bodine and Sam tied up at the hitchrail and followed the man into the coolness of the cantina. Carrillo’s men remained outside, to keep watch.
Over beans and tortillas and beer, the men relaxed and talked.
“I have put people in place on your side of the border,” Carrillo said. “All the way to the Gulf of Santa Catalina. I suspect the plans are that Captain Morgan will lay off-shore and the girls will be taken to the ship by longboat.”
“How many men do you have, Luis?” Bodine asked.
“Sixty. They are all seasoned fighters.”
“Can we expect any help from the Army on our side of the line?”
“That I cannot say for sure. But I must warn you that my first thoughts would be no. Emphatically so. I have had people busy with the telegrafo—on both sides of the border—and the news they received is that the papers of Porter and Lake are proper, legal, and in order. It seems that Lake has a judge under his thumb, so to speak, and the judge drew up these papers. And there is this to consider: at the present time, relations between our countries is somewhat strained. I would think that if anything is to be done, we alone will have to do it.”
“I hate politicians,” Sam said bluntly.
Luis laughed softly. “They are the same worldwide, I think. They are . . . what do the Norteamericanos call it? Yes. A necessary evil.”
They all agreed on that, Bodine saying, “And of course you and your men are not allowed to cross the border, right, Major?”
“Oh, heavens no!” Luis said with a quiet laugh. “We would never do that. Anymore than your soldiers cross our borders searching for Apaches and Comancheros.”
The three of them laughed at that, all knowing the cavalry and various lawmen crossed into Mexico routinely and with arrogance.
“Well, then,” Matt said, “we’ll just have to make sure the wagons somehow get into Mexico.”
Brotherhood of the Gun Page 17