Ambush at Shadow Valley

by Ralph Cotton

  Soto took his time before answering, looking the young man up and down as he hitched the supply mule and the spare horse between his horse and the big paint. ‘‘I might be. . . . Who’s asking?’’ he said finally, sizing up the blue-eyed, youthful face as no threat to him.

  ‘‘I’m Billy Todd Carver,’’ the young man said, touching the brim of his flat-crowned hat. He breathed a short sigh of relief, eyeing the pack mule and its tied-down cargo covered with a dusty canvas. ‘‘Man oh man, am I glad to see you!’’ he said, still in a whisper, struggling to contain his excitement. ‘‘We’ve been looking for you the past two weeks.’’ As he talked to Soto, his eyes went up and down Clarimonde, noting her clothes, her straw sombrero. ‘‘What happened to the convicts you brought to back you up getting away from the law?’’

  ‘‘They backed me up. I got away.’’ Soto gave a thin, wry smile, taking off his gloves and stuffing them into his waist.

  ‘‘Ha, I get it!’’ Carver chuckled, appearing a bit simple. ‘‘That’s a dang good answer, sure enough.’’ He gave an openmouthed grin. But as Soto started to take a step toward the ragged saloon tent, the slender young man suddenly stepped in front of him, blocking him. His hand flipped back his coat lapel and wrapped around the butt of a big Remington sticking up from his waist. His laugh, his foolishness and the openmouthed expression were gone, replaced by a dead-serious glare in his clear blue eyes.

  ‘‘Did I do something to make you think you’re talking to an idiot, Mister? If I did, maybe we best start all over, so you won’t get yourself smeared all over the street—’’

  "Whoa, easy there, Billy Todd!" said Ben Kirkpatrick, another gang member. ‘‘There’s no cause to be inhospitable here.’’ The tall man spread the tent fly to one side and stepped out, facing Soto from fifteen feet away. He wore a shiny black, Montana-crowned hat and a pair of polished knee-high riding boots.

  ‘‘I was hospitable enough, T.’’ Carver kept his eyes on Soto as he answered. ‘‘I asked him a straight question. I expected a straight answer.’’

  Eyeing the mule, with its load of canvas-covered cargo, the tall man said, ‘‘I’m Ben Kirkpatrick. You’ll have to overlook ‘Quickdraw’ here. We’ve had lots of railroad detectives on our necks of late. It’s got us all a little jumpy.’’

  ‘‘ ‘Quickdraw,’ huh?’’ Soto asked, returning Bill Carver’s stare.

  ‘‘Don’t ever doubt it,’’ Carver responded without backing away an inch.

  Soto made no further comment as he looked around the busy street, taking note of three other men, stationed here and there, who were watching intently to see where this confrontation was headed. Those men were English Collin Hedgepeth, Hunt Broadwell and Max Short. Finally Soto turned to Kirkpatrick and gestured a hand toward Clarimonde.

  ‘‘This is my woman, Clair,’’ he said, shortening her name. To her he said, ‘‘Clair, meet Bill Carver and Ben Kirkpatrick, ‘the Tall Texan.’ ’’

  Kirkpatrick stepped forward, took off his hat, bowed slightly at the waist and said, ‘‘My close friends call me ‘T.’ I hope you will do me that honor, ma’am.’’

  Carver took a step back, took off his hat and bowed his head slightly toward Clarimonde, letting the confrontation drop. ‘‘A pleasure, ma’am,’’ he said politely.

  The Tall Texan offered a forearm to Clarimonde to steady herself with as she stepped onto the low boardwalk out front of the saloon tent. ‘‘Allow me, Miss Clair,’’ he said.

  Clarimonde’s eyes went to Soto; then she declined the offer of Kirkpatrick’s arm and stepped closer to Soto’s side. ‘‘Well then,’’ Kirkpatrick said cordially, ‘‘I have a buggy for the lady to ride in. I think it’s time we rode out and introduced you both to Beck and the others. They’ve been waiting for you like a child waits for Christmas.’’ He smiled.

  ‘‘She’ll ride her horse. I’m having a few drinks before I go anywhere,’’ Soto said, stepping toward the tent fly, taking Clarimonde by her arm and leading her with him.

  The Tall Texan and Bill Carver looked at one another curiously. ‘‘Beck doesn’t like being kept waiting, Suelo,’’ Kirkpatrick said.

  Soto stopped and turned to the two men. ‘‘Let’s get this straight right now. You boys hired me to do something for you . . . something none of you can do for yourself. As long as I’m the top ace in the deck, I’ll say how I play my hand.’’ He thumped himself on the chest, and added, ‘‘I’m having some whiskey. You can join me, drink with me or go on about your business, Quickdraw.’’

  Carver and the Tall Texan watched Soto lead Clarimonde in through the tent fly. ‘‘Well well now, what have we here?’’ said Kirkpatrick, just between Carver and himself.

  ‘‘Say the word,’’ Carver replied, staring at the tent fly that had fallen back into place. ‘‘I’ll go raise a goose egg on his head and throw him over a saddle.’’

  ‘‘No, that won’t help us any,’’ said Kirkpatrick. ‘‘This job is too far along to have to go rounding ourselves up a new safecracker. We need him too bad to start right off having trouble. Let’s get in there and drink some whiskey with him. I want to learn more about this woman. She doesn’t look very happy to me.’’

  ‘‘Damn it, T,’’ Carver said, giving the Tall Texan a disgusted look. ‘‘Leave your hands off his woman. You just said yourself we can’t afford trouble with him.’’

  ‘‘I’m not after this man’s woman, Billy Todd,’’ said Kirkpatrick, leveling his hat brim and in doing so, giving the other three men a signal that everything was all right.

  ‘‘As long as I’ve known you, you’ve always been after every man’s woman,’’ said Carver.

  ‘‘Not this time, Billy Todd,’’ said Kirkpatrick, ushering the young man toward the tent fly. ‘‘I want you to believe me. . . . This time I’m innocent. I only want to find out what the circumstances are with these two.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I bet,’’ said Carver, walking in ahead of him. ‘‘I’m not taking my eyes off you, T. Beck told us to wait here for Soto and bring him out to the cabin. Whatever is going on twixt these two is strictly none of my business. Whether she’s happy or not makes me no difference. I want no part of some lovers’ spat."

  ‘‘Neither do I,’’ said Kirkpatrick. ‘‘But ‘lover of women’ that I am, I hate to think she might be some poor gal who’s being preyed upon and kept by some bully, against her will.’’

  ‘‘Dang,’’ said Carver, ‘‘that would make her no different than most every woman I know!’’

  ‘‘Don’t be a knucklehead, Billy Todd,’’ said the Tall Texan. "It always pays to know what’s going on among those you work with.’’

  Chapter 12

  In a weathered cabin alongside a wide, shallow creek, Memphis Beck had just poured himself a tin cup full of strong coffee and started to sit down at the table when he saw the four riders come into sight through the open front window. Three of the riders were on horseback. The fourth, Ben Kirkpatrick, rode in the open-top buggy that sat low to the ground. The other three men had stayed in Rusty Nail to see if Soto had been followed and to keep watch on any other comings and goings.

  ‘‘It’s about time,’’ Beck said to the men seated at the round wooden table playing poker. ‘‘It looks like our safecracker has arrived.’’

  Looking up at Beck, Bowen Flannery worked a toothpick to the side of his mouth and tossed seven dollars to the center of the table. ‘‘Call,’’ he said to Earl Caplan seated across from him. Then to Beck he said, ‘‘I was beginning to think this big-time, Portuguese, dynamite man had gotten a taste of free air and decided to duck back across the ocean.’’

  Beck walked to the front door, saying over his shoulder with satisfaction, ‘‘Well, you can stop fretting over it, Bowen. He’s here.’’

  Bowen shrugged, saying to the others, "Who said I was fretting?’’

  Across from him, Caplan spread his cards on the rough tabletop. "Two pair," he said. "Nines over sevens.’’ Then replying to Flanne
ry he said, ‘‘You’re always fretting over something or other, Bowen.’’

  ‘‘Portuguese?’’ a young horse thief named Bill ‘‘Cruz’’ Cruzan asked as he tossed his cards to the table and stood up. ‘‘I thought he was supposed to be from Brazil, Peru, some place like that.’’

  Beck said, ‘‘Wherever he’s from, Cruz, he’s here now. Let’s go out and meet him.’’

  ‘‘Two pair won’t do it,’’ Flannery said to Caplan, laying his cards down. ‘‘Three lovely ladies here." Raking in the pot with both hands he said to Memphis Beck, ‘‘For all the time and money we spent getting this man out of Yuma, we could have bred our own safecracker and raised him to suit ourselves.’’

  ‘‘Next time we’ll do that, Bowen,’’ Beck said with a smile.

  ‘‘I don’t know what was wrong with the way I cracked a safe,’’ Cruzan said.

  ‘‘Nothing at all,’’ said Caplan, ‘‘except you cracked it all over half of Wyoming.’’

  They chuckled among themselves as they filed out onto the front porch and stood waiting, relaxed and confident as the four riders drew closer. Had these four not been recognized by rifleman Dave Arken, who stood posted at a point above the main trail into the valley, three rifle shots would have warned the cabin long before the riders had made it into sight.

  ‘‘Cruz, there’s a difference between cracking a safe and blowing it all to hell,’’ Beck said to Cruzan. ‘‘This man’s family has mined, cut trails and excavated all over Europe and South America. He cut his teeth on explosives. Opening a safe is nothing to him.’’

  Cruzan shrugged. ‘‘Strap a few sticks to something, step back and cover your ears. That’s all there is to blowing something up.’’

  ‘‘You’re right, Cruz,’’ said Beck, gazing out at the approaching riders. ‘‘That’s why Suelo Soto doesn’t use dynamite to get inside a safe.’’

  Cruz responded, ‘‘But you said he cut his teeth on dynamite.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ said Beck, correcting him, ‘‘I said he cut his teeth on explosives—big difference.’’

  ‘‘Not to me, there’s not,’’ Cruzan said sullenly.

  ‘‘I think what Memphis is trying to tell you, Cruz, is that this man, Suelo Soto, whatever his name is, uses Swedish blasting oil,’’ Flannery said. ‘‘Am I right, Memphis?’’

  ‘‘No, not even close,’’ Beck said, watching the buggy and the riders grow nearer. ‘‘Swedish blasting oil is no better than dynamite. It’s just nitroglycerin mixed with gunpowder. It still blows everything to hell—including whatever’s inside the safe.’’

  ‘‘All right, we give up, Memphis,’’ said Flannery. ‘‘What is it this man does that’s worth so much to us? Don’t he put his trousers on one leg at a time?’’

  ‘‘Yes, but it’s what he does after he pulls them up and buttons them,’’ Beck said. ‘‘He’s a wizard with explosives, knows how to boil nitroglycerin out of dynamite. Even knows how to make nitroglycerin from scratch, like whipping up a bowl of biscuit batter. That’s the part we want to learn from him.’’

  Bowen Flannery raised a brow and said, ‘‘Learn it from him?’’

  ‘‘Yep,’’ said Beck, ‘‘I want some of us watching how he does it. We might need to do it ourselves some day.’’

  ‘‘Like hell if I’ll learn to mix explosives,’’ Flannery laughed. ‘‘You’re a smooth talker, Memphis Beck, but you can’t sell me on that one.’’

  ‘‘I’ll learn it if he’ll teach me,’’ Earl Caplan volunteered.

  ‘‘That’s the spirit, Earl,’’ said Beck. He stepped down off the porch, offering no more on the matter as the riders brought their horses to a halt.

  ‘‘I mean it,’’ said Caplan. ‘‘If that’s what it takes to keep a man in this game, I’ll learn it.’’ He also stepped down to greet the arriving party.

  ‘‘If you start mixing explosives, Earl, you had better not do it around me,’’ Flannery said with a slight chuckle. ‘‘I want to leave this world in a long wooden box, not in a canvas bag.’’

  Beck stood by and watched Soto step down from his horse, Clarimonde and Billy Todd Carver doing the same beside him. While Soto dusted himself with his hat, Beck took a step closer, looking at the strange tattoos on his shaved head. The other men stared curiously.

  ‘‘Suelo Soto?’’ Beck asked, his hand resting comfortably on his gun butt. ‘‘I’m Memphis Beck.’’ He continued in a businesslike voice. ‘‘When my men set up the prison break for you in Yuma, they told you three words to say, so I would know it’s really you instead of some railroad detective.’’ He paused, his hand tightened in anticipation on the Colt; then he said, ‘‘Tell us those three words.’’

  Soto took his time, looking back and forth at the men’s faces, watching their eyes turn stonier the longer he stalled. Finally, with a flat grin he said, ‘‘Filthy Rich.’’

  Beck seemed to ease down; his hand relaxed on the big Colt. He smiled. ‘‘But that’s only two words. I said give me three.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Soto said confidently, ‘‘You had them tell me that you would ask for three, but that I should give you only two.’’ He looked back and forth again, this time spreading his hands as he smiled and repeated, ‘‘Filthy rich!’’

  ‘‘Relax boys, it’s him.’’ Beck smiled and took a step closer.

  Behind Soto and Clarimonde, Carver let his Remington drop back into his holster. In the buggy, Kirkpatrick let the sawed-off shotgun lie back down on the seat beside him. He stepped down while Beck introduced Soto to the other men. Clarimonde stood to the side quietly until Soto gestured toward her with his hand. ‘‘This is Clair. She is my woman,’’ Soto said, as if in introducing her he was also issuing a hands-off warning to the men.

  The men nodded respectfully toward her, tipping or removing their hats as they each looked her up and down with both caution and curiosity. Beck said, ‘‘Ma’am, welcome among us. We are in sore need of accommodations for womenfolk right now. But anything you need to make yourself comfortable, do not hesitate to let any of us know.’’

  Beside Beck, Flannery cut in and said, ‘‘What about the fellows you brought along to help you get away?’’

  ‘‘Don’t ask,’’ the Tall Texan said, stepping over among the others.

  ‘‘They’re dead,’’ Soto said flatly. He gave Kirkpatrick a look, then added, ‘‘I brought them as far as I needed them. Two of them stayed behind to take care of an Arizona Ranger who dogged us all the way across the border. My guess is that he killed them both.’’

  ‘‘Too bad,’’ said Beck. ‘‘One of those men was Dick Hirsh. He’s the one who tipped us off about you in the first place. Hadn’t been for Hirsh telling us, you’d still be swatting fleas in Yuma Penitentiary.’’

  ‘‘Yes, too bad about him.’’ Soto shrugged as if it meant nothing to him. ‘‘The third man I killed myself, before I got to Shadow Valley, the place where I picked up the supplies we’ll need.’’

  ‘‘You’ve been all the way to Valle de la Sombra?’’ Cruz asked using the Spanish name. ‘‘That’s a dang long way south!’’

  ‘‘Yes, Shadow Valley is how far south I’ve been,’’ said Soto, deliberately not saying the name in Spanish.

  ‘‘Killed him, why?’’ Caplan asked bluntly.

  ‘‘I killed him because he was too badly wounded to live,’’ Soto lied straight-faced. ‘‘And I don’t leave living witnesses behind to talk to the law.’’ He looked back and forth among them and asked, ‘‘Is that going to cause me any problems riding with the Hole-in-the-wall Gang?’’

  ‘‘We don’t kill our own,’’ Flannery offered, giving Soto a condemning look. ‘‘Fact is, we try not to kill anybody. So far we’ve been lucky in that regard. It makes the difference between going away for a few years, or swinging from a rope.’’

  ‘‘Never have killed one of our own. Never will,’’ Cruzan added, with the same expression.

  ‘‘We’re all brothers here,’’ said
Caplan. ‘‘That’s what makes us the best at what we do.’’

  ‘‘I do things the way it suits me.’’ Soto turned his eyes to Beck. ‘‘If that sticks in anybody’s craw, I can turn and ride right now before my saddle cools. You can get yourself another man.’’

  ‘‘Everybody take it easy,’’ said Beck, looking at Soto, then at the others. ‘‘We all need a little time to get used to one another. Let’s don’t start arguing right off about how things ought to be done.’’ He looked at Soto, interested in what he’d said about a ranger following them across the border. ‘‘Who was this Arizona Ranger who dogged you? Did you get a look at him?’’

  ‘‘It was Sam Burrack,’’ Soto said, as if knowing that was the question on Beck’s mind. ‘‘I know everybody here has heard of him. So, you all know why I’m saying those two men are most likely dead.’’

  "Burrack . . . ," said Flannery, his eyes instinctively searching the distant horizon as if the ranger might appear at any second. ‘‘If he was on your trail south of the border, it’s a fairly safe bet that he’s on your trail right now.’’

  ‘‘That’s a bet you would lose,’’ Soto said. ‘‘I made certain I shook him loose before I left Mexico with our load of supplies.’’

  ‘‘Oh? How’s that?’’ Beck asked, his eyes having also gone to the horizon at the sound of the ranger’s name.

  ‘‘I blasted Shadow Valley down on his head,’’ Soto said matter-of-factly.

  ‘‘Burrack is dead?’’ Beck asked pointedly.

  "If he’s not dead, he’s busy tunneling himself up through two hundred feet of dirt and rock. Either way, he’s not a threat to us.’’ Soto offered a thin smile. ‘‘I thought hearing that would make you happy, one less lawdog to worry about.’’

  "Yeah, sure, it does," Beck lied. Looking back on his encounter with Burrack near the town of Little Aces, New Mexico, Beck realized that while the ranger had been difficult, he had been fair. The ranger had not fallen under the influence of the railroad’s reward money, or its political pull. Burrack had only done his job. Beck could not fault the man for that.