Ambush at Shadow Valley

by Ralph Cotton

  ‘‘No fooling?’’ Soto gave Ransdale a look, then said to the woman, ‘‘And what makes you think you’re going to be going with us?’’

  She leveled a gaze into his eyes as she picked up a long, sharp-pointed knife from a rack on the side of the butcher block. ‘‘Because I have lived here for a long time. I can show you ways out of this hill country that no American lawman knows about. I can take you deeper into the wilds of Mexico.’’

  ‘‘Maybe we’re not going much deeper into Mexico,’’ he said, watching her play her hand at keeping herself and her father alive. ‘‘What if we’re headed somewhere a little nearer to the border?’’

  ‘‘Nearer to the border? But if you are running from the law, shouldn’t you try to get farther away from the border?’’ Clarimonde asked.

  ‘‘Not just yet.’’ Soto smiled. ‘‘What if I asked you to show us a fast way to Shadow Valley? Think you could do that without the law catching up to us?’’ His smile widened. ‘‘I mean, if it meant saving you and the old man’s life?’’

  Without hesitation, she said, ‘‘I can take you to Shadow Valley on a gun runner trail that even the local villagers do not know about.’’

  ‘‘Is that so?’’ Soto replied. ‘‘Then how is it that you know about it?’’

  With bold confidence she said, ‘‘Because I was once the concubine of the gun runner who forged the trail.’’

  ‘‘ ‘Concubine’ . . . ,’’ said Ransdale. ‘‘That’s just a fancier word for whore.’’ He took a half step forward, but then stopped, noting the knife in the woman’s hand.

  ‘‘If you know a high trail to Shadow Valley, I’m interested,’’ said Soto. ‘‘But if you’re lying to me . . .’’ He let his words trail, leaving the consequence to her imagination.

  ‘‘I am not lying,’’ Clarimonde said, ‘‘and you will see that I am good at everything I do.’’ As she spoke she pressed down gently on the kid’s spiny back. The kid sank onto the block and lay staring blankly.

  The two men watched her slide a low, wide, deep tin cup up against the thin animal’s throat. With a deft stroke of the knife blade she opened a half-inch cut across a raised artery in the animal’s frail neck and let the blood flow into the cup. The kid lay bleeding painlessly.

  ‘‘Now that was slickly done,’’ Ransdale chuckled. As the animal lay with its eyes closed beneath the woman’s soothing hand, he dipped his fingers into the filling cup and flipped blood on Clarimonde’s naked breasts.

  Giving Ransdale a harsh stare, Soto cautioned him, saying, ‘‘Careful she doesn’t do the same thing to you while you’re not looking.’’

  But Ransdale only laughed. He flipped more warm blood on the woman and smeared it down her breasts with his finger. Giving her a cold, menacing stare he said, ‘‘Not me, she won’t. I’m always looking.’’ He leaned in close to the woman and ran his bloody fingers down her hair. ‘‘One slipup, and you’re going to look good swinging from my saddle horn.’’

  Inside the shack the old man had paced back and forth for more than an hour, hushing the two shepherds when they piqued their ears and growled toward the sounds of harsh laughter and swearing from across the yard at the butcher shed. ‘‘Be still, Bess,’’ he ordered the large bitch. ‘‘I know no more what is going on than you do. Now be silent.’’

  But moments later when the aroma of roasting goat meat permeated the air, he stopped pacing and stood, anxiously wiping his palms on his trousers and squinting out a dust-streaked window toward the butcher shed. ‘‘Good, she is feeding them now. Soon they will go on their way and leave us in peace.’’

  Yet, on the floor at his feet the distrustful old bitch rose slowly, this time growling louder as a peal of dark laughter resounded from the smaller shack. Close by the younger dog followed suit.

  ‘‘Halt die Schnauze, Bess! Sie störrisches altes Weibchen!’’ the old man chastised the wary animal, resorting to his native tongue. Then, shaking his finger at the younger, thinner dog, he said, ‘‘You, lie down! What she does with those schmutzige Schweine, she does for all of us!’’

  But no sooner had he settled both animals than the pair sprang back up from the floor as a loud sound erupted from the butcher shed, as if someone had been slammed against the thin plank wall.

  Cursing under his breath, the old man walked to where a long, ornate shotgun hung on pegs above the mantel. ‘‘I won’t sit here idly like a dummer feigling, no matter what my daughter demands of me.’’

  At the sight of the old man taking down the shotgun, both shepherds began scurrying in circles around him. But he raised a hand toward them and said, ‘‘Nein! Nein! Both of you lie down and do as you were told!’’ Only when the two had settled grudgingly down onto the floor did the old man pick up his walking cane, step out onto the porch and slam the door behind himself.

  From a place where they had built a fire out back of the butcher shed, Ransdale turned with a mouth full of hot goat meat and called out to the open doorway, ‘‘Suelo, here comes the old man. He’s packing a scattergun.’’ As he spoke he lifted his gun from his holster with greasy fingers and added with a glistening grin, ‘‘But don’t get up. I’ve got him.’’

  Inside, on a dirty blanket lying on the dirt floor of the butcher shed, the woman cried out, ‘‘No! Papa!’’ and shoved Soto from atop of her. Soto only rolled over and laughed as he watched her snatch her dress from the dirt, hold it to her bosom and run out the open door. ‘‘Crazy whore,’’ he said to himself, pulling the cork from a dusty bottle of whiskey Ransdale had found when he’d rummaged the shack, ‘‘lives here with two wolves and a madman.’’

  Standing, Soto lifted his gun from its holster on the butcher block and walked out naked, the bottle in one hand, his cocked revolver in the other.

  ‘‘Please! It is not loaded!’’ the woman cried out, having run forward and grabbed the shotgun from her father’s hands. She broke the empty shotgun down quickly and held it out for Soto to see, keeping herself between the old man and the two killers. ‘‘He is old and foolish in his head! Don’t hurt him!’’

  Ransdale turned to Soto, his gun out at arm’s length toward the old man. ‘‘You call it, Suelo. I can kill either one or both for you.’’

  ‘‘Hold up,’’ Soto said. He walked closer to the woman and took the shotgun she held out for him to examine. Behind her the old man struggled to shove her out of his way. Soto looked at the unloaded shotgun, shook his head and tossed it aside. ‘‘Foolish is right,’’ he said, staring at the old man’s confused and squinting eyes. ‘‘Old man, your daughter, Clarimonde, just kept you from making a bad mistake.’’

  ‘‘Get out of here, all of you!’’ the old man shouted, uncertain of even how many men were standing before his blurred eyes. ‘‘You are not welcome here!’’ Struggling against his daughter’s firm grip on his wrists, he raged at her, ‘‘I know what is going on out here! I won’t stand for any more of it!’’

  ‘‘Get back inside the house, Papa!’’ the woman shouted, turning loose on his wrists and giving him a shove. Soto stepped in and shoved him at the same time, causing the old German to fall backward to the ground.

  ‘‘You heard her, old man,’’ Soto said. ‘‘Get inside before we nail your shirt to your chest.’’ He slid an arm around the woman’s naked, sweaty waist and drew her against his side. ‘‘Your daughter belongs to us now.’’ He looked up and down Clarimonde’s bruised and dirt-streaked body, her hair hanging matted, half covering her face. ‘‘Right, hurdy girl?’’

  ‘‘Yes, that is right, Papa,’’ she said, feeling a surge of hope in spite of the pain, the shame and humiliation the two men had brought upon her. "Get back inside. I belong to these men. I am leaving here with them.’’ She drew herself even closer to Suelo Soto’s side as if they were lovers. ‘‘You stay here with the dogs.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, old man,’’ Ransdale called out, grinning, tearing off another mouthful of meat now that the shotgun had been tossed aside, ‘‘you c
an go to the dogs as far as she cares.’’

  ‘‘I will get rid of him,’’ Clarimonde said quietly to Soto. Slipping away from his side, holding her dress to herself, she stepped over and helped her father back to his feet. ‘‘Papa, listen to me,’’ she whispered quickly, picking up his cane and placing it in his brittle hand. ‘‘I am taking them to Shadow Valley. Tell the lawman who comes looking for them. Now, stay inside and keep quiet until we are gone. Please help me keep us alive. These men will think nothing of killing you, the shepherds, every one of us.’’

  The old man started to shout something, but uncertain of what he might say, Clarimonde clasped a hand over his mouth and raised her voice loud enough for both Soto and Ransdale to hear. ‘‘Shut up, you old fool, and stay away from me, or else I will take a stick to your back!’’

  ‘‘Whoo-ieee,’’ Ransdale called out. ‘‘Old man, I’d say this gal has given you up for a better deal.’’ He looked at Soto and gave a knowing wink, neither of them fooled into thinking the woman had anything more in mind than staying alive and finding her way out of their hands. ‘‘I believe she’s fell in love with us.’’

  Chapter 5

  The old German sat in silence at a small table for a long time, his head bowed and his eyes closed until the old bitch pawed at his leg and whined so insistently that he could no longer ignore her. Rising from the table, his cane in hand, he walked out onto the porch and squinted toward the silence and the aroma of wood ash and roasted goat meat. No sooner had he opened the door than both of the shepherds shot past him toward the spot where the men and the woman had stepped into their saddles and ridden away more than an hour earlier.

  Seeing no movement other than the blurred image of the dogs, the old man walked across the yard, picking up the shotgun from where Soto had thrown it to the dirt. ‘‘My daughter is gone,’’ he murmured brokenly to himself. ‘‘Once again I find myself alone in this godforsaken wilder platz.’’

  In the nearby corral the herd of goats crowded the rail, bleating and craning their thin necks in hungry anticipation. Ordinarily the shepherds would have run around the fire, barking and begging for scraps of meat at the old man’s feet. But today they only circled wide, sniffed the ground in the direction the horses had taken and raced away along a thin, up-reaching trail into the high, rocky hill country.

  ‘‘Go on with you, then—you can leave me too. Who needs two unruly hunde always underfoot!’’ The old man cried out, waving an arm in despair as the dogs’ blurred images disappeared into the brush. But no sooner had he made the remarks than his eyes filled with tears. ‘‘Both of you come home this minute! Do you hear me, Bess? Stay away from those men! Clarimonde went with them to protect you! Stay away from them!’’

  He stood silently until the last of his echo had sunk into the rocky hills. Then he sighed and walked dejectedly to a feed bin alongside the butcher shed. There he picked up a bucket of feed and an empty bucket for milking. With the empty shotgun clamped under his arm, he trudged out to the corral and went about his daily tasks.

  An hour later, from the edge of the trail the two escaped convicts had ridden in on, the ranger and Hector Sandoval stopped their horses and warily searched the clearing before venturing in. ‘‘Do you know this man?’’ Sam asked, gazing ahead at the old German who had just stood up and walked out of the corral. He carried the shotgun in one hand along with the empty feed bucket. In his other hand he carried a full bucket of goat milk.

  ‘‘He was not here the last time I came this way,’’ said Hector. ‘‘I do not know him, but I know of him. He is an old German who tends goats with his daughter. These goatherds move about like sparrows.’’

  ‘‘Goatherds don’t usually arm themselves with shotguns to do their milking, do they?’’ Sam asked. Nudging his stallion forward, he warily searched the front yard of the shack and the area around the butcher shed.

  ‘‘No, they do not,’’ said Hector, looking all around the yard and the hillsides. ‘‘They have large German herd dogs protecting their goats. I have heard that they look more like wolves than dogs.’’

  ‘‘Do you worry yourself about wolves, Guardia?’’ Sam asked, recognizing a sudden tenseness in Hector and hoping to settle him as they rode closer to the old man.

  The two caught a wafting scent of roasted meat in the air. ‘‘Only when there are wolves around,’’ Hector commented, realizing what the ranger was doing. Nudging his horse along a few feet behind the ranger, he added, ‘‘But I think the wolves I speak of have already been here and gone.’’

  ‘‘I think you’re right, Guardia,’’ said Sam, knowing that whatever tension he’d sensed in the man had passed as suddenly as it had appeared.

  Ahead of them the old man had stopped and squinted toward them. As soon as he made out their blurred images riding slowly into view, he quickly set the bucket of milk at his feet and raised the shotgun to his shoulder. Sam stepped his stallion away from Hector’s horse, putting some distance between them. ‘‘This is your graze. You had better talk to him,’’ he said quietly to Hector. Then he remained silent, watching the old man intently, sensing from his behavior that something bad had happened here.

  ‘‘We come in peace, goatherd,’’ Hector called out, seeing the old man stop and set the bucket of milk on the ground. ‘‘I am the guardia of Valle Hermoso. We are hunting for two very bad men.’’ He paused just long enough to let the old German think; then he added, ‘‘Have you seen them? If not, we will ride clear of you and be on our way.’’

  The shotgun was lowered from the old man’s shoulder. He sighed deeply and said, ‘‘Yes, they were here. They took my daughter, Clarimonde, and left with her. I am going out of my mind with worry and fear for her.’’

  Now Sam spoke. ‘‘Lay the shotgun down, Mister. We’re riding in. I’m also a lawman—Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack.’’

  ‘‘Yes, please, ride in,’’ the old man called out to them. As he spoke he stooped and laid the shotgun down on the dirt. ‘‘I am Herr Siebelz— Adolph Siebelz. I will do whatever you ask to help you get my daughter safely away from them.’’

  ‘‘It is said that his daughter was once a prosperous puta on the Barbary Coast of California,’’ Hector said almost in a whisper as they nudged their animals forward at a quicker pace. ‘‘That is why they took her, instead of killing her and taking her hair. They take her for their pleasure.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ said Sam. ‘‘We’ve seen how these men take their pleasure. If she’s alive it’s because she’s struck a deal for herself. These men are keeping her alive for their own reason.’’

  They stepped down from their saddles. Sam stooped, picked up the shotgun, checked it and held it sideways, letting Hector see that it wasn’t even loaded. Squinting, the old man said, ‘‘Holding an empty shotgun is better than holding no gun at all.’’

  ‘‘Only if you hold it as a club,’’ Sam said, handing him the shotgun butt first. ‘‘How long have they been gone?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘More than an hour . . . two hours at the most.’’ The old man squinted harder, trying to make out the blurred badge on the ranger’s chest. ‘‘She’s not with them because she wants to be. My Clarimonde rode with them to keep them from killing us . . . from killing us and our two dogs. Now the two dogs are gone off trying to find her. She is a good daughter, my Clarimonde.’’ He grasped the ranger’s sleeve. ‘‘Please get her away from those men. Please bring her home. Whatever she has done, she does it to save me and our dogs.’’

  ‘‘I understand,’’ said Sam. He gazed toward the higher land beyond the clearing, gauging how far the party could have traveled in under two hours on such rugged, upward terrain. ‘‘We’ll do our best to bring her home,’’ he said, gently pulling his sleeve free. To Hector he said, ‘‘They must be riding to the high country to find a back trail into Sonora. Maybe Hirsh was telling us the truth after all.’’

  ‘‘Oh, no, Ranger,’’ said Siebelz, ‘‘they do not go to Sonora. My daughter
risked her life to tell me. They are going to Shadow Valley. She is showing them a hidden trail that takes them there.’’

  "Valle de la Sombra," Hector said with a tone of dread in his voice.

  Sam looked at him. ‘‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there. Do you know your way there?’’

  "Sí, I know my way there, but not on some hidden trail,’’ said Hector.

  "We’ll keep tracking them," Sam offered.

  "No matter the trail, once inside Shadow Valley, we are in a good place for desperate men like these to catch us in a trap,’’ said Hector. ‘‘That is why they go there. Why else would they venture back so close to the border to get to such a place?’’

  Sam ignored the warning in Hector’s voice and looked up eastward into the tall, rocky hill country lying above them. ‘‘Maybe they only crossed the border because there’s something Soto needs down here.’’ He studied the eastward ridges against a blue and perfect sky. ‘‘Whatever it is, he gets it, then he’s gone back across the border with it. If he can get rid of us on his way, so much the better. . . .’’ He let his words trail in contemplation.

  After a moment, the old German said, ‘‘Whatever these men are doing, when you catch up to them you can count on my daughter to do whatever she can to help you. This I vow to you.’’

  Hector and the ranger both turned quickly at the sound of brush breaking on the far side of the clearing. Their guns streaked out of their holsters. But they both eased their guns down as they saw the tired younger dog come walking into sight, his head down, his tongue hanging limply. Having turned with them toward the breaking brush, the old German squinted, saying, ‘‘Who is it? Who is coming?’’

  ‘‘It must be one of the dogs you talked about,’’ Sam said, watching the dog speed up into a worn-out trot at the sight of them. ‘‘Easy, boy,’’ he said, he and Hector both standing perfectly still, guns in hand as the thin-flanked shepherd hurried in close, lunging, barking and snarling toward them.