Ambush at Shadow Valley

by Ralph Cotton

  ‘‘What about the supplies?’’ Beck asked, changing the subject away from the ranger.

  ‘‘Everything is there in the buggy,’’ Soto said, thumbing over his shoulder.

  Beck turned his gaze to the loaded buggy, seeing the pile of supplies they had transferred from the mule and covered with the canvas tarpaulin before leaving Rusty Nail. Stepping forward he said to Soto, ‘‘Let’s take a look.’’

  Clarimonde stood to the side and watched as the men walked over and gathered around the buggy load of dynamite. She had listened closely as they’d talked, trying to see whom she needed to get close to—who might help her when she needed someone on her side.

  Even as she watched and listened, she knew that this was not the time for her to try making a move. These men were outlaws, notorious robbers who had drawn together in preparation of plying their trade. No matter whom she went to, no matter what she told them about her situation, they weren’t going to turn her loose, not now.

  Even though Beck and his men were known to be thieves, not killers, Clarimonde couldn’t risk saying anything right now. This was a time to lie low, stay quiet. Soto had mentioned a big job awaiting him with Memphis Beck and the Hole-in-the-wall Gang. How big was the job? She had no idea. But it might be easier for them to leave her lying with a bullet in her than turn her loose and risk her ruining the plans.

  She watched as Memphis Beck flipped back a corner of the canvas and ran his hand across the top of the bulging bags and small wooden crates. ‘‘So this is what it all starts off as, all this to squeeze us out some pure nitroglycerin,’’ Beck said. ‘‘Would it have been easier to mix it all down before you left Mexico, instead of hauling all this over the hills?’’

  Soto looked at him, wondering if it was a legitimate question or if Beck was only testing him. ‘‘Yes, it would have been easier carrying it,’’ he said, keeping it straight and to the point. ‘‘But pure nitroglycerin is too unstable on its own. That’s why it’s mixed three to one with diatomaceous earth and sodium carbonate.’’

  Cruzan stammered, ‘‘Diatom—Diatoma—What the hell?’’

  ‘‘Diatomaceous,’’ Soto corrected him, looking at Beck as he spoke. ‘‘Without mixing nitro with something to absorb it, the least bump in the trail would blow nitroglycerin sky-high. If I had taken the time to turn it into dynamite, we would have had to separate it again once I got here. Boiling nitroglycerin out of dynamite can be risky without the proper setup and equipment. It’s easier making it right here, from scratch.’’

  Listening, Clarimonde noted that the slight trace of a Spanish accent that had crept into Soto’s voice while they were below the border had now vanished. His English had become as clear as Beck’s, or any man there.

  ‘‘I see,’’ Beck replied coolly, not giving Soto any clue as to whether his question had been honest, or just his way of finding out if Soto knew what he was talking about. ‘‘In that case, tell us what we need to do to help you get it done. We need to be out of here headed north in no more than a week.’’

  Looking off toward a small weathered barn a hundred feet away, Soto said, ‘‘I’ll need that building to do my work. It’ll take the next couple of days. If we’re through with introductions, I’ll get started right away.’’

  ‘‘Good enough,’’ Beck said. He looked around at the faces of the men and said, ‘‘Caplan, Kirkpatrick, you two come with me. We’re going to help him make—’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Soto said quickly, cutting him off, not wanting to share what he knew with the rest of the gang. ‘‘I won’t be needing your help.’’ He nodded toward Clarimonde and said, ‘‘Clair will give me all the help I need.’’ He looked at her and said, ‘‘Bring the horses. I’ll bring the buggy.’’ He looked at Beck and said coolly, ‘‘I’m going to have a deep hole dug in the barn floor . . . and I’ll need ice, lots of ice.

  ‘‘We can start diggin’ the hole first thing in the morning,’’ said Beck. ‘‘Ice might be a little hard to come by.’’

  ‘‘As soon as I have a hole full of ice, I’ll get started,’’ Soto said firmly.

  Beck looked around. ‘‘Where am I going to find any ice?’’

  ‘‘That’s your problem,’’ Soto replied in a dry, arrogant tone. ‘‘Just get it for me.’’

  Watching the two gather the horses and loaded buggy and ride away toward the barn, Cruzan said to the others under his breath, ‘‘He’s kind of an odd bird. I’m not so sure he’s going to fit into this bunch.’’

  ‘‘He’s got a rude, belligerent turn to him,’’ the Tall Texan commented. ‘‘He didn’t mind keeping everbody waiting while he drank his fill before he’d ride out here.’’

  Beck stared after the two riders and their buggy load of supplies. ‘‘Well, he’s not going to share what he knows with us, that’s for certain.’’

  ‘‘I’d almost as soon put the job off than work with the arrogant turd,’’ Carver said. He spit on the ground toward the barn.

  ‘‘We’re not putting it off,’’ said Beck, watching Clarimonde look back at him from the open buggy. ‘‘He’s our safecracker. Until one of us learns to make nitroglycerin and dynamite, we had better get used to him.’’

  The woman’s eyes had singled Beck out for a moment, as if asking both him and herself if she could confide in him. Confide what? Beck wondered. He considered it, watching the man and woman move closer to the old barn. He didn’t know what it was, but there was something at play here, he was sure of it. Shaking the matter from his mind for the moment, he turned to the others and said, ‘‘All right, let’s get the man some ice. Bowen, you’re in charge of getting it.’’

  ‘‘Get the man some ice, where?’’ Bowen Flannery said, spreading his hands. ‘‘Look around you, Memphis. We’re in a desert.’’

  ‘‘The rail station at Rock Crossing,’’ Memphis said, the idea just coming to him. They’re using insulated cars, shipping goods on ice from Missouri.’’

  ‘‘Rock Crossing is more than a fifty mile ride from here,’’ Flannery protested.

  ‘‘Then you had better pick a couple of men and get started quick,’’ Memphis shot back. ‘‘Take the train out of Rusty Nail as far as Dry Buttes. Steal a handcar to ride back. That’ll cut your time in half both ways.’’

  ‘‘What about our horses?’’ Flannery asked, spreading his hands.

  Beck stared at him.

  ‘‘Damn it.’’ Flannery shook his head. Then he looked at Billy Todd Carver and said to Cruzan, ‘‘All right, let’s go. We’re bringing back ice.’’

  Chapter 13

  Clarimonde and Soto spent the night in the barn, the two of them sleeping on a pallet of hay-stuffed blankets in a warm, dry stall she had to prepare for them. The following morning in the first blue hour of light, she walked from the barn to the well out front of the house with a blanket wrapped around herself. No sooner had she walked out of the barn than Soto, naked, had stood up from the pallet and watched her through a crack in the wall planks. He carried his big Colt, his thumb poised over the hammer, ready to cock it if need be.

  When Cruzan, who had spent the last third of the night on the porch keeping guard, stepped down to help her lift a bucket of water, Clarimonde turned him down. Soto smiled to himself, watching her draw the heavy oaken bucket of water from the well and carry it back toward the barn. At the well, Cruzan stood scratching his head. ‘‘I’ve never known a woman to turn down a friendly offer of assistance,’’ he said to Memphis Beck, who had stepped out onto the porch, a freshly rolled smoke in his fingertips.

  ‘‘She’s obeying her master, I’d say,’’ Beck replied. Noting her bare feet and realizing that she wore nothing beneath the blanket, he watched her walk toward the barn. ‘‘Peculiar,’’ he commented to himself, striking a match down a porch post and lighting his cigarette.

  Looking toward the barn himself, Cruzan said, ‘‘Her master, huh? Well, as far as I’m concerned, this Soto fellow has no interest in ever being a part of our bun
ch. The sooner we can find somebody else who mixes explosives the better,’’ Cruzan said, stepping back to the porch.

  ‘‘Maybe we’ve already found that person,’’ Memphis speculated quietly to himself, watching the woman until she disappeared inside the barn.

  ‘‘Huh? What’s that, Memphis?’’ Cruz asked, not hearing his lowered words.

  ‘‘Oh, nothing,’’ Beck said letting go of a stream of gray smoke on the crisp morning air. ‘‘Just thinking out loud.’’

  Inside the barn, Soto had walked back to the pallet and lain down on his side, facing her in the dark as if he were still asleep. When Clarimonde stepped inside and closed the door, she set the bucket of water down and made her way to the kerosene lamp standing on a dusty shelf. She took a long match from a wooden box, lit the lamp and adjusted the light into a narrow, circling glow.

  With better light to see by, she carried the bucket over, set it atop a wooden work shelf and poured water into a wash pan sitting beside it. She gathered her long hair, wrapping and twisting it atop her head to get it out of her way.

  In the dim, golden circle of light twenty feet away, Soto watched her drop the blanket from around herself, pick up a small washcloth from the pan of water, wring it between her hands and begin washing herself. He watched her, enjoying every movement, every touch of the wet cloth to her skin. She was not a young woman, nor was she beautiful. Her face, her sinewy body, had long been seasoned, weathered and hardened by the harsh Mexican hill country.

  But Soto didn’t care. She was no limp or rigid piece of cold flesh. She knew how to apply herself to the act of pleasing men. She was his for the taking, and she had seemed to grasp instantly that what he wanted from her was her complete and total submission. He smiled to himself outside the glow of light, watching her hand touch the cloth to her most private areas.

  She was something warm, something to do with at his pleasure after all the days and nights alone in his ten by ten prison cell. He liked the idea of her knowing how little it would mean to him when the time came for him to kill her. And they both knew that time would come, he reminded himself, liking that idea as well. After he’d finished with her, had his fun with her, had his fill of her, they both knew she was marked for death.

  When she’d finished washing herself, she gathered the blanket and walked out of the light to the pallet. Soto opened his eyes. Reaching out and grasping her forearm, he said, ‘‘Leave it lie,’’ as she stooped to pick up her dress and put it on.

  She let the dress fall from her fingertips and watched him turn onto his back and throw off his blanket, exposing himself to her. ‘‘Do something about this,’’ he commanded her. Then he smiled, seeing her stand up long enough to loosen her hair from atop her head and bow down over him with no hesitation, no sign of reluctance. To think Nate Ransdale would have scalped and killed this woman, he reminded himself. The man was a fool. No wonder he was dead. . . .

  Moments later, as Clarimonde stood dressed, rewrapping and resetting her hair atop her head, Soto had stepped into his trousers, pulled them up, buttoned them and looked all around the barn. He walked to Clarimonde and gripped her hard by her buttocks. ‘‘We slept too late. Go over to the house, get us a pot of coffee and some grub. Don’t let me find out you said a word to anybody about how we met. Do you understand?’’

  ‘‘I understand,’’ Clarimonde said quietly, her eyes lowered.

  ‘‘Don’t be foolish enough to think these men are going to do anything to help you. They need me worse than anybody needs you.’’ His grip tightened; Clarimonde struggled to keep from trying to pull away from him. He tapped the side of his head. ‘‘You’re just a washed-out whore. You’re not worth the cost of your feed.’’ He smiled cruelly. ‘‘I have knowledge. They’ll do whatever I want them to do. That includes skinning and salting you, if I tell them to do it.’’ He took a deep breath of satisfaction. ‘‘I’m the only thing keeping you alive.’’

  She winced under his increased grip on her behind. ‘‘I won’t tell them anything, I swear it,’’ she said. ‘‘I have given my word.’’

  He turned her loose roughly, saying, ‘‘All right, then get going and hurry back here with some food and coffee. We’ve got a lot to do to get ready for when our ice arrives.’’ He watched her try to hurry away, limping the first few steps from the pain his strong grip had caused her. ‘‘Who knows, maybe I’ll have you help me mix up the first batch of nitro. You have a steady hand, don’t you?’’ he said, teasing her.

  ‘‘I—I don’t know if you should trust me to do something that important,’’ she said. ‘‘I have heard how dangerous it is.’’

  ‘‘Dangerous?’’ Soto chuckled. ‘‘I’ll tell you how dangerous. One false move and they would be picking pieces of you out of the trees.’’

  Clarimonde shook her head. ‘‘Please don’t make me do something like that,’’ she said, for the first time begging him to not force her to do something against her will. ‘‘I wouldn’t be steady enough to do it.’’

  Soto’s thin smile went away as he took a step toward her. ‘‘You’ll do it if I say you’ll do it,’’ he said in a threatening manner.

  Clarimonde shut up, her eyes still lowered. Knowing better than to say any more on the matter, she moved away toward the barn door. ‘‘Go on,’’ Soto added, waving her away in dismissal as he reached for his shirt lying over a stall rail. ‘‘As soon as we get this place set up to mix our explosives, I’m going to tell Mr. Memphis Beck to have his men clear us out a room in the house all for ourselves,’’ he said, even though Clarimonde had already left and shut the door behind herself. To himself he added as he straightened his wrinkled shirt, ‘‘He’ll do it, too. That’ll show how much he needs me. . . .’’

  Outside, walking to the house, Clarimonde saw Memphis Beck and another man watching her from the front porch. As if acting upon a word from Beck, the other man stood up and walked inside as she drew nearer. ‘‘Morning, ma’am,’’ Beck said, standing and touching his hat brim. ‘‘I hope you were comfortable enough in the barn.’’

  ‘‘Yes, thank you,’’ Clarimonde said cordially yet stiffly, Beck noted. She stepped onto the porch, deliberately avoiding him with her eyes.

  All right, Memphis, you’re the smooth talker. Here’s your chance. Get busy . . . , he ordered himself.

  ‘‘I want you to know that had we been expecting a lovely woman such as yourself, ma’am, we would have strived to provide you with more genteel accommodations,’’ he said, hoping to bring her eyes around to him.

  But she replied without facing him, ‘‘We made do with the accommodations on hand, Mr. Beck. May I please have a pot of coffee and some food?’’

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am, you certainly may,’’ Beck said. He stepped over and knocked on the front door, even through there were eyes watching them through the windows. ‘‘Now that you and Suelo are up and around, we’ll get busy straightaway, digging the hole in the barn. I sent three of my men to fetch some ice.’’ He heard someone turn the door handle from inside. ‘‘Is there anything else you or Suelo might have thought of overnight? Anything else that me and my associates can do to help speed things along?’’

  The woman stood rigid without offering any sort of reply. Beck had to ask himself if she realized how much her silence and her lack of response told him.

  All right then . . . Beck studied her expression.

  The door opened, Beck’s knock being answered by Dave Arken, who’d had been relieved from his job of standing guard along the trail. ‘‘Miss Clair,’’ Beck said, ‘‘this is Dave Arken.’’

  ‘‘Ma’am,’’ Arken acknowledged with a curt nod.

  To Arken, Beck said, ‘‘Dave, this is Miss Clair, Suelo Soto’s ‘companion.’ She and Suelo have gotten a late start this morning. Fix them up a fresh pot of coffee and some breakfast.’’

  ‘‘Sure thing,’’ said Arken, taking a second to look Clarimonde up and down. ‘‘We just made a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll pour it into a
couple of canteens. There’s plenty of beans, bacon and hot cakes.’’

  ‘‘Good, Dave,’’ said Beck. ‘‘Meanwhile, the lady and I will wait here and get better acquainted.’’

  The woman appeared to grow tense upon hearing Beck’s suggestion, so much so that when Dave Arken closed the door, Beck said to her, ‘‘Ma’am, I hope I didn’t say something to offend—?’’

  ‘‘No, you didn’t,’’ Clarimonde said quickly, almost cutting him off. She made a quick, nervous glance toward the barn. Beck noted the gesture. ‘‘It’s just that it’s been a long trip, and I’m still worn-out from it,’’ she said. As she spoke, a nervous hand went to a strand of hair blown loose by a passing breeze. She brushed the hair aside with her fingertips. ‘‘I’ll—I’ll be fine in a day or two.’’

  ‘‘Of course you will. I understand.’’ Beck smiled faintly, wondering if she realized just how much more her actions and expression had told him about herself and her situation. The thought crossed his mind that she might very well be doing this purposefully, her words and demeanor speaking to him too subtly to be questioned if she were ever confronted about it.

  He looked her up and down and asked, ‘‘I expect you and Suelo have been together a good while?’’

  She gave no response. She only looked away as if any answer she gave might be the wrong thing to say.

  I see . . . , Beck conjectured to himself, deciding that she’d been warned not to reveal anything about the two of them.

  Beck quickly filled the silent pause by saying, ‘‘I thought you might have known one another a long time, the way he trusts you to help with the explosives.’’

  Her eyes flashed onto his with a look of fear, then cut away. Still she gave no answer.

  Beck picked up on her silence and pressed further, learning more as he went, in spite of her refusing to answer him. ‘‘That’s quite a trade you have, mixing explosives. If you’ll pardon my saying so, ma’am, I know of only a few men who can do it, let alone women.’’ He studied her eyes from a side view as she looked off along the distant hill line, avoiding him. This woman knew nothing about explosives, and very little about Suelo Soto, Beck decided. Shame on you, Soto, you tattoo-headed son of a bitch, he thought. You stole this woman somewhere along the way.