Lookout Hill (9781101606735)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  Rurales, Sam told himself, having taken position in the dirt, flat on his stomach, his Winchester out, ready to fire. He saw three men stand in a crouch, each of them wearing the same ragtag mismatching uniforms he’d seen on Captain Goochero’s men at their last confrontation.

  “We didn’t kill these people. I found them here,” Sam shouted, knowing things had already gone too far. These men had fired on them too freely, and they wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. But he had to try to stop things if he could.

  “And we found you!” the voice called out.

  Another round of shots whistled past Sam’s head. He sighted on one of the three and fired the Winchester as they charged forward from the brush, shooting repeatedly. He heard one of the riders cry out in pain; he levered another round into the rifle chamber. They weren’t interested in what had happened, only in drawing blood. He jerked the rifle back against his shoulder and took aim. One down, two to go…. But at the sound of Lupo’s voice, he stopped and waited for a second.

  “Hold your fire!” Easy John Lupo commanded from the direction of the barn. “This man is with me.”

  With him?

  Sam saw Lupo stand straight up in the shallow grave, his Walker Colt pointed and cocked toward the lead rurale from less than twenty or thirty feet. The charging rurale slid to a sudden stop at the sight of Lupo and the big Walker Colt. His eyes widened in recognition as Lupo reached up and snatched the bandanna from his forehead.

  “Do not make me tell you again,” Lupo shouted in warning. “Drop your guns and raise your hands.”

  “Drop your guns, you imbeciles!” the lead rurale shouted over his shoulder. “It is Coronel Lupo!” His gun fell from his hand as if it had scalded him.

  Coronel Lupo?

  Sam looked down his rifle sights, ready for anything. He watched as Lupo pulled himself from the open grave and walked forward, his Colt still covering the lead rurale, who stood frozen with fear.

  “Are you all right, Ranger?” Lupo asked over his shoulder.

  “They’re covered,” said Sam calmly, a bead drawn on the lead rurale, just in case things took a bad turn for Lupo.

  “Don’t shoot us, Juan Lupo,” the lead man said, shaking. “We did not know it is you!”

  “You know it now,” Lupo said firmly, his feet planted shoulder-width apart. He called past the lead rurale to the man standing a few yards behind him, his gun on the ground, his hands held chest high. “Get your wounded man up and bring him here, pronto,” he demanded. Looking to the right in the brush, Lupo spotted three horses hitched to a standing rock. “Bring your horses with you,” he called out.

  The second rurale hurried to the fallen man and pulled him to his feet. Sam walked over beside Lupo, his Winchester still cocked and ready.

  “A bounty hunter, huh?” he said. He eyed Lupo skeptically as the nearest rurale still stood frozen in place. Farther back, the other rurale walked forward leading the horse, his wounded companion’s arm looped over his shoulder.

  “Yes, a bounty hunter…among other things,” Lupo said sidelong to him, keeping his dark eyes on the lead rurale.

  Chapter 9

  The Ranger backed away from Lupo as the three rurales approached. Lupo stared at them, the wounded man swaying in place, standing on his own now, a hand clasping his bloody shoulder. Both Sam and Lupo noted the Remington revolver in the wounded man’s holster, but Sam wasn’t going to mention it. This was Lupo’s play. He kept his Winchester leveled and cocked.

  The lead rurale tried to offer a smile, but it only looked stiff and nervous as he lowered his hands a little, keeping them spread in a show of peace.

  Before Lupo could speak, the rurale rattled quickly in Spanish, “Coronel Lupo! Mil disculpas, tenido nosotros conocido este hombre estuvo con usted—”

  “Speak English, hombre,” Juan Lupo said, cutting him off.

  Again Coronel Lupo, Sam thought, listening closely.

  The rurale appeared stunned. He gave his two companions a baffled look, then took a breath and turned his eyes back to Juan Lupo.

  “I offer a thousand apologies,” he said in labored English. “Had we known it is you with this one, we would never have fired at him. But we saw him loading a body onto a horse as we rode down to the valley and—”

  “What are your names? Where is your capitán and the rest of his men?” Lupo demanded, cutting him off again.

  The three looked at each other.

  “I—I am Emilio Sanchez,” said the nervous rurale. “This is Hector.” His hand gestured to the other rider, then to the one with the Ranger’s bullet in his shoulder. “This is Teto.” The wounded man wobbled dangerously to one side, but caught himself at just the right moment. Watching him, Sam questioned how hurt he really was.

  “Where are Goochero and the rest of his men?” Lupo asked again.

  Emilio appeared to stall for a moment, then gestured back along the trail.

  “The captain and the rest of the men are not far behind,” he said.

  “I see,” said Lupo. “Then you three are scouting the trail?”

  A look of sudden relief came upon the rurale’s face.

  “Sí, that is correct,” he said, “we are scouting the trail for the capitán.” He looked at the one named Hector for support.

  “That’s right,” Hector said. “We are trail scouts, the three of us.”

  “I see,” said Lupo. He eyed them sharply. “I am glad to hear that, because so many rurales decide to desert Goochero’s provincial forces when they get this close to the putas and the mescal in Barranca del Cobre.”

  “Sí, it is true,” said Emilio, working at hiding the guilty look on his face. “But that is not what we do. We are not interested in whores or mescal in Copper Gully, only in scouting the trail for our capitán.” As he spoke his hands fell idly to his sides. Sam noted the move; so did Lupo.

  “You, Hector,” Lupo said, letting the big Walker Colt sag a little in his hand. “Bring those horses closer. I want to look at them.”

  Hector gave Emilio a guarded look before stepping forward with the horses.

  “You heard him, Hector,” Emilio said sharply. “Show him our horses.”

  Hector pulled the three horses forward by their reins and stepped all the way out of the brush.

  Sam noted that Lupo had lowered his Colt. He was up to something, letting his guard down that way. The Ranger had seen that kind of move plenty of times, always by slick gunmen who wanted to put him off guard, make him think they had given up their edge. He had no idea why a man like Lupo would do this, but being Lupo’s backup, he decided to play along. He lowered the butt of the Winchester three inches, and watched and listened.

  “They are our regular horses,” said Hector, even as he led the animals forward and stopped in front of Lupo.

  “I will be the judge of that,” Lupo said. He jerked the reins from the rurale’s hand. “Raise this one’s front hoof. Show me the marking.”

  Hector’s eyes slid to Emilio, then back to Lupo.

  “Not all of our horses have marked hooves, Coronel Lupo,” he said warily.

  “But one out of these three better show a mark,” Lupo warned. His dark eyes stabbed back at Hector like a dagger. “Now show me,” he demanded.

  “Sí,” Hector said, “I will show you.”

  He backed up against one of the horses’ rear legs, crouched and raised its dusty hoof between his knees. Lupo let his Colt point away from Emilio as he leaned in closer to Hector to inspect the animal for a hoof marking.

  Here goes, Sam thought, seeing Emilio catch the move and let his right hand drift around toward the back of his belt.

  “No mark on this one,” Lupo said to Hector. “Show me another.”

  “Sí, Coronel Lupo,” said Hector. He let the horse’s hoof down and turned to the next animal. But instead of reaching down for the horse’s hoof, he grabbed for a gun behind his back.

  As fast as a rattler, Lupo’s big Colt jammed into Hector’s middle and exp
loded. The shot streaked cometlike through his belly and out his spine. Sam saw Emilio and the wounded Teto make their move at the same time. Going for Teto, the one visibly wearing a gun, Sam fired the Winchester and watched the man fly backward as the bullet’s impact slammed his chest. As soon as he fired, Sam levered a fresh round and swung the rifle barrel toward Emilio, but his help wasn’t needed.

  Lupo’s big Walker Colt roared like some angry giant. Emilio turned a twisted backflip, leaving a red circle of mist in the air as he hit the ground facedown, as limp as a bundle of rags.

  Sam watched Lupo swing the Walker from one downed rurale to the next, satisfying himself that each man was dead as the spooked horses tried to pull their reins free from his hand. Settling the animals, he let the gun hang down his side and turned to face Sam.

  “Well…bueno suerte for us,” he said flatly. “Now we have no shortage of horses.”

  “Good luck for us…?” Sam only stared at him. “You set them up and killed them.”

  Lupo stopped cold as he saw the Ranger’s smoking Winchester barrel pointed at him.

  “Oh…?” he said, as if disregarding the rifle. “And what did these cowards do? They slipped in on us, to ambush us, kill us and take what money we might have to pay for their spree in Copper Gully.” As he spoke, he slid his Colt back into his belly holster and showed Sam his empty hands. “There, you see, I am unarmed now. I don’t think you will shoot me, Ranger,” he added, “not that it upsets you this much to kill these jackals.”

  “Don’t bet your life on it, ‘Colonel’ Lupo,” Sam said. “You’ve got about one second to start leveling with me.”

  Lupo let out a breath. He kept his hands chest high, still holding the three horses’ reins.

  “All right, it is true I hold the rank of colonel in the emperor’s federales,” he said. “But it is only an honorary commission bestowed upon me by Generalissimo Manuel Ortega for finding some missing gold, stolen from Mexico City.” He gave a sight shrug as if to dismiss the matter. “Does that clear things up for you?”

  “Some.” The Ranger continued to stare at him, but he lowered the rifle butt from his shoulder to his waist. “I saw how these men acted when they recognized you. You didn’t have to kill them. You could have shooed them away like pigeons.”

  “Yes,” said Lupo, “and like pigeons they would have flown off somewhere and sooner or later let someone know they saw me here.” He paused, then added, “A bounty hunter does not like for his comings and goings to be known.” He gave the Ranger a look. “Neither does a lawman like yourself, eh?”

  “Neither does a spy,” Sam said bluntly.

  “A spy?” said Lupo. “That is what you think I am now because I killed these deserters, these ambushers?”

  “To be honest, Lupo,” said Sam, “right now I don’t know what you are.” He gestured toward the three horses at Lupo’s side. “Now that horses are more plentiful, I don’t see much need in us riding together.”

  “All right, Ranger, you’ve got me,” Lupo said. “Perhaps I am something other than a bounty hunter. Perhaps it is more accurate to say I am a special attaché serving the emperor of Mexico under Generalissimo Manuel Ortega.”

  “Special attaché…?” Sam said with a skeptical look. He was squeezing for an explanation, but he wasn’t sure what he was getting for his trouble.

  “All right, then, ambassador, if you like,” Lupo said with a slight shrug. Seeing the unyielding look on Sam’s face, he said “An envoy? A public servant?”

  “I’m sticking with spy,” said Sam.

  “Have it your way,” said Lupo. “But I can still show you the way to Colina de Mirador.”

  “Or I can still find Lookout Hill on my own,” Sam replied, knowing his words were part bluff. Whatever Lupo was, he was worth riding with if he led them both to the killers they were looking for.

  “While we stand here talking about it,” Lupo said, sounding a little impatient, “Siebert and Bellibar ride farther from us. One good hard rain and it will be as if they never rode through these hills.”

  “I agree,” said Sam. He let the Winchester droop in his hand and gestured back toward the open graves. “We can finish up here and talk about it on the trail,” he said.

  “Yes, that would be wise,” Lupo said. Offering nothing more on the matter, he led the three horses over beside Black Pot and the silver-gray dun. Sam watched as he walked back to the half-dug graves and picked up the shovel. “Meanwhile, you can ask yourself how bad you really want the man who did all this killing, and his companion, Bellibar.”

  Bobby Hugh Bellibar had not wasted any time. When he’d shot Hodding “Hot Aces” Siebert and left him for dead, floating away downstream along a switchback hill trail, he’d ridden Siebert’s roan almost nonstop to Copper Gully.

  As soon as he arrived at the booming little mining town—a venture financed and overseen by the Pettigo-American Mining Company—he reined Siebert’s roan and the other two dead outlaws’ horses up to a row of iron hitch posts out in front of a ragged tent cantina.

  Just when he started toward the cantina, four gunshots exploded from inside the large tent. Bellibar stepped quickly aside, his hand going to the Remington for assurance as a bloody gunman wearing a frayed red pin-striped suit staggered out through the tent fly. The man stood unsteadily, one hand clutching his chest where blood spurted and gushed from three bullet holes. With his other hand he tried in vain to raise a shiny double-action Colt Thunderer as he fired it repeatedly down at his side.

  Bellibar watched as the man shot himself three times in the right foot before pitching face-forward onto the rocky ground. Severed toes bounced like popcorn from his shot-open boot.

  Bellibar grinned with perverse satisfaction.

  “Bobby Hugh, this is your kind of town,” he said aloud to himself as the three horses nickered in terror at the hitch post.

  Two men filed out through the tent fly, the one in front carrying a smoking revolver in one hand, a short-handled blacksmith hammer in the other. He crouched over the bloody man on the ground, drew the hammer back and dealt him a hard blow to the base of his skull. The body flopped once on the ground, then fell still as stone. The man with the blacksmith hammer stood ready to swing the big hammer again.

  “Figure he’s dead?” he said to the man behind him.

  The second man stood holding a shotgun at port arms.

  “If he’s not, I want no part of him,” he said.

  “You’re right,” said the man with the big hammer. He dropped the hammer beside the body on the ground and wiped his palm on his trouser leg. “I’m obliged to you for catching him cheating. I hate a card cheat worse than anything.”

  “Whoa, now,” said the man with the shotgun, “I never said he was a card cheat. I said that a red-striped suit was hard to beat.”

  “Jesus…,” the other man said. He rounded a finger deep inside his ear. “I’m getting to where I can’t hear worth a damn.” He looked at the body on the ground, then back to the man with the shotgun. “He was a card cheat, though. I can see it in him, can’t you?”

  The shotgun holder considered it for a moment. “I’d have to say yes, he was a cheat,” he said. “Let’s not go blaming ourselves for this, Harvey. There’s folks gets killed every day.” He reached a thumb over the shotgun hammers and let them both down. “We need to clear out of here before Pettigo’s mercenaries catch wind of this.”

  “Pettigo and his mercs don’t give a blue damn about one dead gambler—” Harvey Moran said. Then he cut himself short and said, “Wait. What’s this?” He stared at Bobby Hugh Bellibar, who stood watching, his hand resting on the Remington behind his gun belt. “What the hell you looking at?” he asked menacingly, the smoking Colt still in hand.

  “Whatever suits me,” Bellibar replied calmly, rapping his fingertips idly on the gun butt.

  “Yeah?” Harvey took a step toward him, then stopped.

  “Yeah,” said Bellibar, not backing an inch. He’d heard four s
hots, meaning the man only had two shots left—one, if he kept his hammer resting on an empty chamber.

  “Say, I know these two horses,” said the man with the shotgun, eyeing the dead outlaws’ horses standing next to Siebert’s roan. “They belong to Saginaw Sparks and Paco, the Mex.” His eyes cut from the horses back to Bellibar. “What’re you doing with them?”

  “Whatever suits me,” Bellibar repeated. His fingers stopped tapping.

  “Whatever suits you….” A dark chuckle came from Moran, who stood loosening and tightening his grip on the Colt, realizing how short he was on bullets. “Is that your answer for everything, hombre?”

  “Pretty much,” said Bellibar. He gave a smug little grin that told Moran he knew how many shots he was facing and wasn’t worried in the least. “Are you going to scold me for it?” he asked.

  The man with the shotgun had also realized their situation, he himself not wearing his gun belt, owing to a fiery rash around his waist. He started to put his thumb back over the gun hammers.

  “You’re making the last mistake in your life,” Bellibar said, his grin disappearing as easily as it had arrived.

  The man’s thumb moved away from the gun hammers; the shotgun slumped in his hand.

  “I know Saginaw Sparks,” he said in a cautious tone. “He’d never give up that horse long as he was alive.”

  “Ain’t that the truth, though?” Bellibar said calmly.

  A tense silence fell around the three. Inside the tent a guitar, a trumpet and an accordion spilled mariachi music tinto the dry evening air. After a moment Harvey Moran let out a tight breath.

  “Well, well,” he said, keeping cool in spite of his shortage of firepower. “Here we are, three ol’ Anglo boys having ourselves a Mexican standoff…in Mexico, no less.”

  Bellibar just stared at him.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Moran offered Bellibar, trying not to stand down too easily. “You drag this dead fool away, hurry back here and Bad Sharlo and I will buy you a drink.”