Lookout Hill (9781101606735)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  There’s the gunshots….

  Sam straightened to a stand and followed the prints with his eyes as the collection of unseen entities, both beast and human, appeared to have collected themselves on the stream bank and dissipated onto the hillside. He let the reins to the drinking horses fall from his hand and followed the prints a few feet onto the harder, rocky shelf leading away from the stream bank.

  He stooped again when he found a half circle of sun-dried blood lining the single left boot heel. Leaking blood, he told himself. A few feet away he saw another half circle, this one lighter, only a trace. His eyes followed a single set of hoofprints moving back onto the trail, headed north into higher country. Then he looked back at the ground beneath his feet.

  Someone had been shot here and someone had helped them up into the woods. But who? One of the outlaws, or some hapless traveler who had come upon them? A body would most naturally be lying somewhere in the wake of men like Siebert and Bellibar. He tried to work out the scenario at the stream bank more clearly in his mind. But before he could complete his thoughts on the matter, he heard the sound of several rifles cocking inside the surrounding pines.

  On first instinct he would have flung himself to the ground and brought the Winchester up into play. But seeing the ragged, mismatched uniforms of rurales encircling him as they stepped into sight on the hillside, he froze and stood with his hand in place on his rifle stock. He reminded himself that if these men had wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have heard their rifles cock—he would only have heard the blast of fire, then nothing else. He let out a tense breath and waited, seeing two mounted men step their horses into sight from behind the cover of a sunken boulder.

  “You will lay down your rifle, lawman,” a tense-looking man with a thick, drooping mustache demanded.

  Good, they had recognized the badge on his chest, Sam thought. Sometimes that helped; other times it didn’t. This time it appeared to have kept the bullets from flying long enough for him to explain himself. He slowly placed the Winchester on the ground at his feet and straightened up. Now would they ask him to lay down his sidearm?

  No, he decided, hearing the thin man call out to him.

  “Come forward with your hands raised, lawman,” he demanded.

  Sam held his hands chest high. He walked forward and stopped a few feet in front of the two mounted rurales.

  “What brings you to our beautiful country?” the thin Mexican asked in a mock welcoming tone, as if this were the first American lawman he’d ever encountered in the Mexican badlands.

  “I’m Arizona Ranger Samuel Burrack, here in pursuit of wanted men, under the Matamoros Agreement, an agreement between our two governments,” Sam said, as if reciting the words from some official document.

  “We know about the Matamoros Agreement,” said the other rurale, sounding offended. This one’s face wore a fresh, clean shave beneath the thin, straight line of a mustache. A powerfully built man, clearly the leader, Sam told himself, noting polished black boots and a newer-looking uniform. “The agreement says that you must be prepared to explain to any funcionario such as I who you are searching for and why.”

  “I understand,” said Sam. “I’m tracking two men. Their names are Bellibar and Siebert. They’re wanted for murder and robbery. I have their posters inside my shirt.” He made a slight gesture of his hand toward the bib of his shirt.

  “Do not reach for anything, or I will be forced to shoot you dead,” the thin rurale warned him.

  Sam stopped. “I’ve identified myself. I’ve given you the men’s names. I’m offering a look at their faces.”

  The clean-shaven rurale gave a flat grin and waved the notion aside.

  “If I want to see ugly gringos,” he said. “I have three cousins I visit in Ciudad El Paso.” He chuckled at his obscure joke. The thin rurale joined in, the two nodding at each other as they laughed.

  Sam only stared. They didn’t know where to take this now that he’d presented himself with respect, knew the rules of the Matamoros Agreement and showed a willingness to cooperate. There was a slight opportunity for him here. He decided to take it while they both wondered what to do next.

  “Am I being held, Capitán…?” he asked the clean-shaven man, eyeing first the silver-braided epaulets on the shoulders of his officer’s tunic, then staring straight into his black eyes.

  The Ranger’s look and demeanor summoned a no-nonsense response from the rurale officer.

  “Capitán Fernando Goochero,” the man said, straightening in his saddle, his laughter suddenly silenced. “This is my segundo, Sergeant Lopez.” He paused for a second as if pondering the Ranger’s question, then said, “No, you are not being held.” To Sergeant Lopez he said quietly, “Have the men stand down.”

  Lopez gave a nod and a hand gesture to the half circle of pointed guns. The guns slumped. He turned to the captain with a proud expression.

  “You may lower your hands now, lawman,” said the captain.

  “It’s Ranger, Capitán,” Sam corrected him, “Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack.” He lowered his hands but kept them clear of his holstered Colt.

  The captain ignored his correction.

  “Take your rifle and go, lawman,” he said to the Ranger. “But be mindful that we are here. We are searching my province for rebels who have banded together to overthrow our emperor and his regime. But we also hunt outlaws when their paths cross ours. Unlike you americano lawmen, who think you are born with God’s blessing to travel wherever you see fit, in my country, I keep my men where we belong, eh, Sergeant Lopez?”

  “Sí, Capitán,” said the skinny sergeant, staring coldly at the Ranger. “The difference is, we catch and kill the men we are looking for. We do not ride around in circles—”

  “We wield the law as we see fit,” said the captain, cutting his sergeant off. He raised a finger for emphasis. “When we come upon the kind of men you are hunting, we will execute them on the spot. This is how we deal with both gringo outlaws and Mexicano rebels here in my part of the province.” He eyed Sam closely. “How do you treat Mexicano rebels and traitors?”

  “Section four of the Matamoros Agreement makes it clear I’m to have no part in any political struggles, Captain,” Sam said without hesitation.

  “I am impressed, lawman,” said the captain. He gave a tight smile. “I see you have actually read the agreement. Gringos have so little regard for my nation’s laws they do not bother to learn them. Instead they take the word of some fool who also holds our law in disregard. Mexican law becomes no more than rumor to them.”

  Sam stared back and forth between the two.

  “I know your nation’s laws and I follow them to the best of my ability,” he replied.

  “Do you hear him, Sergeant Lopez?” The captain looked at the sergeant and shook his head slightly. “He follows our laws to the best of his abilities.”

  “Sí, I hear him, Capitán,” the sergeant said in disgust. “They cannot help themselves, these gringos. They believe the world belongs to them. They do with it as they see fit.”

  The captain looked back down at Sam.

  “To the best of your abilities, eh?” he said.

  “That’s all I’ve got for you, Captain Goochero,” he said. His gun hand relaxed and moved nearer to his holstered gun butt. “That’s all I’ve got for anybody.” He let the captain and the sergeant see that he’d have no more of it. He sensed time ticking, widening the gap between himself and his prey. He came here to do a job, not to be put upon.

  The two stared at him, both realizing the unquestionable reasoning, whether they agreed with his words or not.

  “Are we through?” Sam asked bluntly.

  The captain didn’t reply. Instead he jerked his horse’s reins, turned the animal and rode toward the rest of the waiting rurales.

  The sergeant glared down at the Ranger.

  “Go your own way, lawman, but be careful that you stay out of ours,” he said in warning.

  “I’ll keep that i
n mind, Sergeant Lopez,” Sam said. He watched the thin sergeant jerk his horse around and ride off behind the captain. Only when the two had formed their men up and ridden out of sight did Sam pick up his rifle and gather Black Pot and the silver-gray dun. Rifle in hand, he led the horses up among the rocks, following the tracks of the goat, the donkey and the footprints left by flat-soled sandals—one set of prints belonging to a small child.

  Cause for concern? he asked himself. Yes, he believed it could be. A child thrown into the mix of things always demanded close attention. But he’d know more on the matter as the ascending path through the rocks revealed it to him. Looking down at the rocky ground beneath his feet, he saw the spot of blood and reasoned that it did not come from whoever wore the flat-soled sandals. That person’s gait moved along at a straight and steadily pace. The bleeding came from the person atop the donkey.

  It helped to know that.

  He walked on, leading the horses, weaving his way another ten yards through unearthed boulders until the hoofprints and footprints began to fade across a flat, widening rock shelf. He kept close watch on the hard surface at his feet, yet even so, near the edge of the rock shelf, all signs of the prints seemed to vanish into thin air.

  To his left, a steep path sloped downward fifty yards, then flattened onto a sheer rock wall. They obviously didn’t go that way, unless they could fly, he reasoned. The ledge ended the same way on his right—a small path to nowhere. Whoever led this party didn’t want to be followed. In terrain like this, he could search for days and never come up with so much as a hoof mark. By the same token, a person wise enough to leave no trail was also wise enough to leave sign for someone to follow if they felt they needed help.

  Sam turned and looked out along the trail leading north, away from the water’s edge—the single set of prints there. He had to either stay on that person while the tracks were fresh or search around blindly in the rock lands and take a chance on both men getting away.

  All right.

  It made sense to go after the one easiest to follow at this point. But he considered the small, flat-soled sandal prints and let out a breath. The one headed north would have to wait. He was going after the ones headed deeper into the rock lands.

  “I hope you’re leaving me something to go on,” he murmured out across the hill country beneath him. He swung up into his saddle and turned both horses along the edge of the cliff to his right, toward the downhill path.

  Near dark, Sens Priscilla, the healing woman, kindled the fire pit in the rocky front yard of her home—a part cave, part pine and stone structure clinging to the side of El Punto de Diablo. As she stoked the fire and sank a small covered kettle of water to boil in a bed of glowing embers, she felt the tiny black eyes of her sparrows watching from their perch along a short hitch rail. The birds stepped nervously in place and tipped their paper-thin wings in anticipation.

  “Don’t worry, little chippies,” she said softly, her face shadowed inside the hood of a faded black robe. “When have I ever left you to the mercy of the night?”

  The birds chirped even livelier and stared back as if understanding her words.

  “Don’t tease us, Sens Priscilla,” she said in a squeaky little voice. The birds chirped eagerly at the sound of her voice, recognizing the different tone.

  Priscilla started to gather the sparrows into the warm, drooping sleeve of her robe for the night, but a sound from the pathway up the steep hillside stopped her. She froze for a moment and listened closely, as silent as death.

  The scrape of an unshod hoof? Yes, so it is, she answered herself.

  She turned toward the path, spread her hands slightly and let the baggy sleeves fall down over them. She continued to stand statuelike, her eyes closed, the catch of sparrows huddled and perched in a tense silent line behind her.

  She focused all her senses toward the slow approach of hooves moving softly across rock, whisking past dried brush. She divined danger there, yet it was not danger immediate. It was danger impending—a dark omen of danger to come if left unrestrained. With that thought, she instinctively felt for the slim dagger tucked away inside her robe.

  But when she heard the slightest clack of a small bell and watched the little goat walking into sight, her hand immediately eased back to her side, as if leading the way for the old man and his granddaughter, Erlina. Seeing them, Sens Priscilla almost let out a sigh of relief.

  She caught herself as she saw the donkey walk into view. A man was sitting slumped atop the small animal’s knobby back, the front of his half-naked chest covered with bandages and dried blood. She eyed the gun lying across his lap.

  There is the danger and, with it, evil.

  She stood perfectly still until the little goat walked up from the rocky trail, bounded the last few feet and stopped and nuzzled her knee.

  When the old man and Erlina came closer, Sens Priscilla rubbed the goat’s head and whispered, “What is it you bring me this day, little Felipe?”

  The goat bleated and stared up at her.

  “No, I do not blame you,” Priscilla said. “You are just a skinny little goat.” She brushed the animal aside gently. Then she stepped forward to make welcome these innocent ones who had delivered such danger and evil to her door.

  Chapter 4

  The sparrows disbursed from the hitch rail and disappeared into the rocky hillside as Herjico and Priscilla helped Hodding Siebert through the front door of the house back into the torchlit cave. They sat the wounded man down on a pallet of straw covered by a faded striped blanket. With the hideaway Colt dried firmly to his bloody hand, Siebert lay back on the pallet against the stone wall and looked all around.

  “What kind of deal is this?” he asked in a weak and slurred voice. His head bobbed on his chest as he struggled to stay conscious.

  Ignoring his question, Sens Priscilla turned to the old man and nodded toward the front yard.

  “Bring me the hot water sitting in the fire bed, Herjico, por favor,” she said. Then she lowered her voice just between the two of them and said, “Take Belleza from the barn and hide her, pronto. You know where to go.”

  “Sí, I know,” said Herjico. Without another word, the old Mexican hurried away. No sooner had he left the cave than Priscilla stooped down beside the wounded gunman and reached out to take the Colt from his hand. Siebert’s eyes had fallen almost shut, but he opened them quickly and in reflex swiped the barrel across her cheek.

  Even though the blow was weakened by his loss of blood, Priscilla fell back onto the dirt floor with a hand to her cheek. She glared at him from within her hood.

  “Huh-uh, witch,” Siebert warned. “Don’t be giving me no evil eye. And don’t be trying to disarm me. I’m not giving this gun up. I let it dry to my hand just for that very reason. Anybody tries to unstick it…I’ll know right off.”

  When he was finished talking, his eyes fell shut again. Priscilla rose to her feet, her hand against her cheek, inside the blackness of her hood.

  “Do not worry, gunman,” she said with bitter contempt, “no one is taking your gun from you. I only wish to move it aside so I can treat you.”

  “You’re going to try to hex me?” Siebert said. His eyes opened dreamily. “Go ahead, then, witch,” he said with a smile, recalling how Bellibar had slipped his Remington from his holster unawares while he’d lain drinking water. “Hex me so this gun never leaves my hand. It would be the best thing could ever happen to me….” His words trailed.

  “Sí, I will do it,” said Sens Priscilla, going along with the man’s delirium in order to quiet him down. Her tone turned soft, soothing, and fell almost to a whisper. “Now sleep, sleep deeper and deeper…and do not worry about the gun. No one can take it. A gun will always be a part of your hand, a part of your arm…as much a part of you as your own bone and blood.”

  A faint smile passed across Siebert’s lips.

  “Yeah, a part of my hand,” he said dreamily, raising the bloodstained gun an inch and letting it fall back on
to his lap. “I like that…keep going.” His voice trailed away into sleep.

  Out front, Erlina, the donkey and the little goat stood waiting. They all watched as Herjico hurried past them toward a plank and adobe barn, also built against the stony hillside.

  “Where are you going, Abuelo?” Erlina called out.

  “Never mind where I go,” said the old man. “Wait here.”

  As he hurried past them, Little Felipe bleated, slung his head back and forth and darted forward trying to butt the old man’s legs from behind. But Erlina saw what the goat planned to do. She caught him by his stubby horns and held him as he squirmed and bucked against her.

  “No, no, Felipe,” she said. “Our abuelo is busy. We must let him do what he needs to do.”

  Our abuelo? The old man shook his head as he hurried to the adobe barn, slipped inside and shut the door soundly. Dear, dear Erlina, he thought. The poor, simple child had now turned him into the grandfather of a goat.

  Seeing the old man disappear into the barn, the little goat settled and twitched its short, stubby tail. Erlina released her grip on the animal and stood patting its skinny, coarse-coated back while she stared toward the barn.

  “What is Abuelo doing in there, Felipe?” she asked idly.

  In moments she saw her grandfather come out of the barn and hurry back to the fire a few feet from her and the two animals. He squatted down beside the fire and reached for the steaming kettle of water, using his wadded shirttail to protect his hand from the hot iron handle.

  “Keep the foolish goat from under my feet,” he said aloud, in spite of the tenderness her words and actions brought to his heart. “He will cause someone to fall and break their neck.”

  “No, Abuelo. Felipe loves everyone. He will tell you so,” the young girl said, hugging the struggling goat’s thin neck to her cheek as it tried to break free in order to butt the old Mexican. The goat bleated in protest. “See? Hear him?”