The buzzards might soon have good reason to circle overhead once again.
Chapter 7
Braddock hauled the dun around and sent it galloping toward the eastern wall. He knew he would present a more difficult target heading toward the hidden rifleman, rather than away from him. He angled the horse a little from side to side. Bullets kicked up dirt and gravel around them, but luck was on their side.
Braddock raced into the rocks along the base of the wall. The bushwhacker didn't have a very good angle on them now. He would have to fire almost straight down at them.
As Braddock kicked his feet from the stirrups, he hauled his Winchester from its saddle sheath. He hit the ground running and moved away from the dun. The rifle had fallen silent, but if there was any more shooting he wanted to draw it away from the horse.
He stopped next to one of the boulders, jacked the Winchester's lever, and craned his neck to peer up at the rimrock. Nothing was moving up there against the pale blue sky.
Another shot ripped through the afternoon air, but this one came from the other side of the canyon. The bullet spanged off the boulder only a few feet from Braddock, throwing rock dust in his face. He grated a curse and moved quickly around the boulder to put it between him and the rifleman on the far side of the canyon.
They had him pinned down good and proper, he thought disgustedly.
And yet he couldn't complain too much, he thought. In the back of of his mind on the way down here to the canyon had been the thought that someone might follow him. That was why he hadn't made his presence in Cemetery Butte a secret. If anybody connected to the killers was still around these parts, having a Texas Ranger poking into the massacre might spook them into doing something reckless...like trying to bushwhack him.
Why chase outlaws when he could make them come to him?
Now the trick would be to survive somebody taking that bait.
Braddock took off his hat and held it in his left hand as he edged his head around the boulder. He didn't see any movement on the far wall of the canyon, which was about a hundred and fifty yards away at this point. A fairly long shot, but certainly not out of rifle range for a keen-eyed marksman. The bullet coming so close to him proved that.
A grating sound from above him made him pull back quickly and look up at the rimrock. There were boulders up there, too, he recalled. Suddenly he felt a cold ball of fear in his belly.
He saw something dark loom against the sky. That gunman on the other side of the canyon probably had his rifle lined up, just waiting to fire, but Braddock knew he couldn't stay here despite that. He broke into a run along the base of the wall. Instinct made him dive forward.
The huge rock that plummeted down behind him missed by only a few feet. With a thunderous crash that shook the earth, it struck where Braddock had been standing.
Braddock landed hard, lost both his hat and his rifle. The impact knocked the breath out of him and left him stunned for a second. The echoes from the boulder falling rolled through the canyon. Shots boomed from the far side, mixing with the echoes. Bullets hit the ground close to Braddock and spewed gravel in his face.
The stinging sensations from that gravel goaded him into movement. He pushed himself onto hands and knees, grabbed his hat and Winchester, and surged to his feet. He ran again. Another rock crashed down behind him, smaller this time but still big enough to have broken his head open like a melon if it had landed on him.
He thought about swinging the rifle up and spraying lead toward the far wall, but that would be just a waste of ammunition, he decided. Hurried shots at this range, fired on the run, would have no chance of hitting anything. He concentrated on running instead, something his high-heeled boots weren't made for.
There were more rocks ahead where he could take cover from the rifleman on the other side of the canyon, but that would still leave him vulnerable to attacks from above.
A thought popped into Braddock's mind. Abruptly, he reversed course and angled out into the canyon. That put him more at risk from the rifleman, but with danger all around him, he didn't see that he had any choice. This gave him the best chance of disposing of one of the threats.
He stopped and turned his back on the man trying to shoot him. That made his skin crawl. He expected to feel a bullet smash into him at any second. But he ignored the sensation as best he could and brought his Winchester to his shoulder as he scanned the rimrock above and ahead of him.
There! The man who had been trying to crush him under the rocks had run ahead to another boulder and had his shoulder against it, rocking it a little and working it toward the edge. The rifle in Braddock's hand cracked. The man yelled and twisted as the slug ripped through him. He stumbled toward the brink and clawed at the pistol holstered on his hip.
He didn't get the gun out. A scream erupted from him as he lost his balance, toppled off the edge, and plunged toward the ground forty feet below. The scream cut off with an ugly thud.
Braddock felt a bullet sizzle past his ear. He sprinted for the rocks again. Shots whined off the boulders as he threw himself behind them.
So far it seemed like there were only two bushwhackers, one on each side of the canyon. If that was true, he had just doubled his chances of getting out of here alive.
From where he crouched now, he could see the crumpled body of the man he had shot. The man was lying on his side, facing away from Braddock, so the Ranger couldn't get a good enough look to recognize him.
Braddock's heart slugged harder in his chest as he heard that ominous grinding and scraping again. Somebody else was up there above him, and they were shoving another boulder toward the edge.
The sounds weren't coming from directly above him, however, and as he jerked his head up to gaze toward the rimrock, he saw why. One of the rocks perched near the brink rocked back and then forward and then overbalanced enough to topple off. It shot down through the air—
And landed on the ambusher Braddock had killed.
Braddock grimaced and air hissed between his teeth as he saw blood spurt out around the boulder. The echoes of its fall bounced back and forth in the canyon, then faded to be replaced by a tense silence. The man on the other wall had stopped shooting.
A pair of legs stuck out from under the boulder, but that was all. The dead man's head and torso were crushed to a red paste, Braddock knew. There would be no way of identifying him.
Braddock pondered what that might mean, and as he did, he heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats from the other side of the canyon.
From the sound of it, the bushwhacker over there was lighting a shuck.
Had the second man on this side called off the ambush? Braddock didn't know, but it seemed likely. The possibility got even stronger a few moments later when he heard rapid hoofbeats from the wall above him. They faded quickly.
Braddock waited, unwilling to emerge from cover just yet in case the bushwhackers were trying to trick him. Long minutes stretched out as a buzzing sound began to fill the air. Flies were gathering around the pool of blood spreading from under the boulder.
Finally, with his Winchester held ready, Braddock stepped out into the open. He looked across the canyon and at the rimrock above him and saw no sign of movement. The sunlight didn't reflect off any gun barrels.
The would-be killers were gone.
Although Braddock was convinced of that, he didn't let his guard down as he retrieved his hat and then stepped over to the last boulder that had fallen. The blood on the ground around it had an oily sheen that made his stomach clench slightly. As he approached, flies rose from the crimson pool and swarmed in the air. Braddock waved his hat to scatter them.
He could have tried to find a branch so he could lever the big rock off its victim, or used his rope and the dun to try to drag it off, but the whole idea seemed pointless. He wasn't going to recognize what was left of the man. The bastard's mother wouldn't know him now.
He studied the protruding legs for a moment, though. They were clad in denim jeans, and
the boots on the feet were well-worn, nothing fancy, just the sort of boots that any cowboy on this range might wear. Plain spurs were strapped on them.
Actually, all this told him was who the dead man wasn't. He could rule out Martin and Jason Rainey and Charles Horner, all of whom were better dressed than this hombre. He didn't know of a reason why any of those three would want to kill him, either.
A slight frown creased Braddock's forehead. If Manuel Santiago really was to blame for the massacre, it was possible he had spies in Cemetery Butte who could have alerted him to Braddock's presence. Santiago could have sent men up here to keep an eye on the canyon and kill anybody who came snooping around.
But Mexican vaqueros tended to favor gaudier spurs than that, Braddock thought. It wasn't a hard-and-fast rule, of course, but his hunch was that the dead man was a gringo.
The only thing he knew for sure was that somebody didn't like him being here. The killers had to be afraid that he would uncover their identities.
That told him the best thing to do was to keep poking, although it meant he would be wearing a target on his back.
It wouldn't be the first time, he thought wryly.
A whistle brought the dun trotting up the canyon toward him. Braddock was glad to see that the horse was unharmed. He swung into the saddle and headed south toward the border.
Chapter 8
Alamoros was more than a village full of farmers. It was a good-sized settlement with a business district that stretched for three blocks and quite a few adobe houses on the cross streets. A large mission with a tall bell tower stood at the far end of the main street. The bell in it was tolling the arrival of evening as Braddock rode in.
His badge was back in his pocket. It had no standing here. Other than being a target, it didn't mean anything to anyone except him. And he knew it was always there whether he wore it or not.
Being a gringo, he would stand out here, but no doubt there were other Americans in this settlement as well. Men drifted across the border from Texas for all sorts of reasons. Most were on the run, either from the law or from something else in their lives.
Braddock reined the dun to a stop in front of a large adobe building with FLORES CANTINA painted above its entrance, which had batwing doors across it just like an American saloon. He dismounted and looped the reins around a hitch rail where several other horses were tied. In the fading light he saw that most of them carried the "skillet of snakes" brands popular south of the border, meaning they probably belonged to vaqueros.
One horse had a more familiar brand on it, though: a shovel-like shape that Braddock knew represented the Spade Ranch. Martin Rainey's ranch. Braddock had seen it on Jason Rainey's horse that morning as they rode to the top of Cemetery Butte.
That was interesting but didn't mean anything yet. Rainey had business interests south of the Rio Grande, so it made sense that one of his men might be down here. In fact, from what Braddock knew of the geography, Rainey's mine was only a few miles from here.
Quite a bit of noise came from the cantina, a blend of guitar music, laughter, and talk. None of it slowed down when Braddock pushed the batwings apart and walked into the room. Everyone seemed to ignore him.
The hair on the back of his neck told a different story. The way it prickled, he knew he was being watched.
The bar was on the left. Tables were scattered through the middle of the room. On the right-hand wall were curtained booths for privacy. In the back was an open area where a very attractive young woman in a low-cut white blouse and long, colorful skirt was dancing to the accompaniment of three men with guitars. Her slipper-shod feet moved with blinding speed on the stone floor. Some of the men drinking at the tables clapped along with the music and called encouragement to her.
The cantina was busy, with only a few open spaces at the bar. The tables were all full. Braddock turned toward the bar, but before he could take a step someone moved up beside him on the right. Since that was his gun arm, the person's presence made warning bells go off in Braddock's brain. He moved his hand toward the holstered Colt.
Then he saw that the person who had come up to him was a young woman, equally as beautiful as the dancer, if not more so. She smiled and put a hand on his sleeve. He pulled his arm back, not wanting her to slow his draw if he needed to make one.
"Take it easy, señor," she said in good English. "Do I look like I mean you any harm?"
"Bad things sometimes come in pretty packages," Braddock said.
She certainly qualified on the second part of that, he thought. Smooth skin just darker than honey, and plenty of it on display in the blouse that left her shoulders and the upper swells of her breasts in view. Waves of rich brown hair that tumbled around her face. Shadowy eyes with devils dancing in them. Once again she rested a hand with long, crimson fingernails on his arm.
"How can you look at me," she asked, "and think that I am bad?"
"What's your name?" Braddock asked instead of answering.
"Elena."
At first glance he had thought she was very young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Now he saw that she was older than that, more like nineteen or twenty. The lines around her eyes and mouth were very faint, but they were there, testifying that her life had not been an easy one.
"What is it you want with me, Elena?"
She inclined her head toward one of the curtained booths and said, "Come sit with me. We will drink, talk, laugh...I don't think you have laughed enough in your life, señor."
It had been a while since Braddock had seen a lot to laugh about, that was true enough. But as he slowly nodded, he wasn't agreeing with the girl because of that. According to Rainey, Manuel Santiago spent most of his time in Alamoros, and this appeared to be the largest, busiest cantina. He had sought it out for the same reason he had gone into the Palomino Saloon in Cemetery Butte that morning. There was information to be had in such places.
There was information to be gotten from young women like Elena. She might even be able to tell him where to find Manuel Santiago.
"All right," Braddock said. "You want to get a bottle and some glasses from the bartender?"
"They await us already, señor."
She moved to link her left arm with his right, but he stopped her and said, "Come around on this other side."
"You gringos. Always so suspicious."
"I like to think of it as being careful."
The air smelled of tequila, cerveza, tobacco, hemp, and human flesh. Even with that potent mix in his nostrils, Braddock caught the scent of flowers from Elena's hair. For a second it made him remember a girl named Rosaria...but she was gone and thinking about her wouldn't do anybody any good.
As they neared the booth, a burly, bearded man in sombrero and serape stood up from the table where he had been drinking with friends. He turned toward the entrance, and the way he swayed on his feet showed how drunk he was.
Or how drunk he was pretending to be. Braddock kept an eye on the man, and when he lurched toward Braddock, the Ranger was ready. He twisted out of the way of a potential knife thrust and took Elena with him.
The drunken vaquero banged his shoulder against Braddock's, though, then took an unsteady step back and cursed. His breath was so laden with tequila Braddock thought that if he lit a match, flames would erupt from the man's mouth like he was a dragon.
"Paco, no—" Elena began.
The drunken man cursed her as well as Braddock and swung a big fist at the Texan's head.
If Paco was putting on an act, he was doing a mighty fine job of it. The punch was slow and lumbering, and Braddock had no trouble getting out of its way. The miss threw Paco even more off-balance than he already was. Braddock caught his wrist, twisted his arm behind his back.
"Ah, dios mio!" Paco gasped.
Braddock glanced around. A few people in the room were watching the confrontation, including Paco's friends at the nearby table. The girl in the back of the room was still dancing, though, and the musicians hadn't missed a beat. From t
he lack of reaction, Braddock figured that Paco getting drunk and trying to start a fight wasn't an unusual occurrence. Maybe this little fracas was harmless after all.
Braddock leaned close to Paco's ear and asked in Spanish if the man spoke English.
"Sí, a little," Paco replied in a strained voice.
"I'm not looking for trouble, amigo. I'm sorry I bumped into you." Braddock put a little pressure on Paco's arm, enough so that the man could tell it wouldn't be any trouble for Braddock to pop it out of its socket. "All right?"
"S-sí," Paco said. "I...I accept your apology, señor."
"Good. I'd just as soon be friends." Braddock let go of Paco's arm and stepped back. He took a coin from his pocket and pressed it into the big man's hand. "Buy your friends a drink on me."
"Sí, señor. Muchas gracias." Paco nodded toward the door. "As soon as I get back. I've had a lot to drink tonight already."
Braddock smiled and said, "I can tell."
Paco stumbled on toward the batwings and went out into the night. Whether he would come back and spend that dinero on his friends or keep it all for himself, Braddock didn't know or care.
"Thank you, Señor Braddock," Elena said quietly beside him. "Paco means no harm. He is like a big shaggy dog who doesn't know his own strength." She linked arms with Braddock again and urged him the last few steps to the booth. "Besides, I did not want a fight drawing attention to us."
That statement was enough to give Braddock pause. If she was just one of the girls who worked in this cantina, why would she care if anyone paid attention to her doing her job.
That was really just an afterthought, though, because she had said something else that caused alarm to shoot through him. He stopped and said, "I never told you my name, and I've never been in this town before."
Something sharp prodded against his left side. Never losing the smile on her face, Elena said, "This knife is sharp enough to slide right between your ribs and into your heart with just a little push, señor. No matter how fast you are with your gun, I can kill you before you kill me."
Blood and Gold (Outlaw Ranger Book 3) Page 4