by Ralph Cotton
“I found hoofprints going off deep into the brush, sir,” said Corey Trent, him and Elijah Chase coming back from behind the livery barn with torches in their hands.
“We’ll start from there,” said Cantro. Seeing the men mounted and ready to ride, he turned his horse to face them and said, “We can’t let these two get away. They’re going to lead us to the gold. They know where that wagon is as sure as the world is flat. They might start out in the brush, but they’ve got to hit a trail to ever make it down to the desert floor. We’ll stay close and let them guide us. Now everybody get spread out in the brush and find their tracks.”
In moments one of the mounted men called out, “Sir, over here. I’ve got two sets of tracks headed west, and one headed east.”
Riding over quickly, Cantro said, “This way. They’re headed toward Agua Mala. We’re going to push on through the night until we find them. I’m betting they’re headed down to the sand hills. They’re going to lead us straight to that wagon.” He batted his boot heels to his horse’s sides and rode away. The men followed along, loosely forming up a military column as they rode through the brush and followed the hoofprints up onto the main trail.
A half hour ahead of Cantro and his men, Shaw stopped in a moonlit clearing in a switchback turn and eased Jane down to the ground. Then he slid down himself, lifted his canteen from his saddle horn and helped her over to a rock and seated her. “I look like hell, don’t I?” Janie said in a pained, half-conscious voice.
“You’ll be all right,” Shaw said. He uncapped the canteen, poured some water onto the bandanna he jerked from around his neck and dabbed carefully at her battered face. She winced and sliced her breath in pain.
“This ain’t right, Lawrence, them doing all this to me,” she said, her voice trembling with the pain and with rage. “I’ll carry this beating for a long time to come,” she said. “Not that I was any beauty girl to begin with, eh? I’m homely as a gray cat anyway.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Shaw said, wiping blood from her cheek and from a cut under her swollen eye.
“Hell, it’s the truth,” she said, trying to open her eyes up at him.
“I don’t like that kind of talk,” Shaw said. “I don’t know what to say to you when you talk like that.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’m just spouting off some truth on the matter.” She sighed and turned her face up for him. “As looks go, I didn’t stand to lose much anyhow.”
“That’s enough, Janie, stop it,” Shaw said. In the moonlight he saw a long trailing tear run from her eye down her bruised and swollen cheek.
“I’m sorry, Lawrence,” she said, gasping as he touched the wet cloth to her injured nose. “I—I suppose I’m just afraid . . . you won’t love me anymore.”
Shaw made no response. What could he say? He didn’t love her. He’d never told her he did. What a time to bring it up, he told himself, dabbing the wet bandanna gently, getting some of the dried blood from her battered face.
When he didn’t answer, she reached up and took his wrist. “I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve put you on the spot, haven’t I?”
“Janie,” Shaw said, “this is not the time or the place.”
“I know,” she said. “I could kick myself sometimes. I just can’t learn to ever keep my mouth shut.” She turned loose of his wrist and shook her head slowly. “If things ever go good for me, I find a way to screw them up.” Her voice sounded muffled and stiff with pain.
“Take it easy,” Shaw said. “You don’t need to be talking right now.” He looked back along the trail in the moonlight. “We need to get going. Can you ride?”
“That’s a hell of a question,” she said indignantly, her voice turning stronger. “Hell yes, I can ride. Would you ask Dawson or the Undertaker something like that if they were beat up?”
“Yes, I would,” Shaw said. He pressed the wet bandanna into her hand and said, “Here. Carry this.” Then he swept her up almost against her will and carried her to the horses.
Jane looked down at him through swollen eyes when he’d lifted her up into her saddle. “I went a little soft there for a minute, but I’m all right now. I don’t want you thinking you owe me anything.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Shaw said.
Jane started to say more, but she fell silent as the two of them heard the sound of horses moving along the switchback trail beneath them, heading in the opposite direction. “Federales?” she whispered.
“I hope so,” Shaw whispered. “Wait here.” He handed her the reins to the speckled barb and slipped over to the edge of the trail in a crouch. Stooping beside a rock, he looked down in the pale moonlight. As he rode slowly along the trail below he made out the light tan color of the Mexican soldiers’ uniforms and the outline of their garrison caps.
The second column . . . Good enough, he thought.
Back at his horse, Jane asked as he stepped upward into his saddle, “Good news, or bad?”
“It’s more soldiers,” Shaw said. “For now it’s good news. They’re going to be riding straight into Cantro and his Dogs. It’ll get him off our backs for a while.” He backed his horse a step to keep Jane in front of him, where he could watch over her. “If they get into a fight, it’ll give us a chance to reach the wagon without them on our tail.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Jane said bravely, seeming to put aside her injury and pain.
Garris Cantro drew his horse up sharply in the moonlight when the column of Mexican soldiers sat facing him six abreast on a wide stretch of trail. “Whoa, Arnold!” said Cantro, his horse circling to a halt beneath him. Behind him, Arnold Stroud quickly brought the men to a halt and sent them scrambling to take up the same abreast position as the soldiers facing them.
“Hola the trail, Senor Cantro,” a young Mexican captain said, sitting calmly but prepared for anything.
“Hola to you, Captain Fuerte,” said Cantro. He composed himself quickly. “What brings you here to the badlands?”
“The stolen gold, what else?” said the captain with a stern expression.
“Ah yes, that stolen gold,” said Cantro. “I heard all about that. I’m surprised your army hasn’t had better luck finding it by now.”
“I’m also here to find the men who are killing and plundering all along these hill towns,” Captain Fuerte said.
“Yes, I’ve heard all about them too,” said Cantro. “I wish you luck hunting them.”
“They are Border Dogs,” the captain said bluntly, and with confidence.
“Easy, Captain,” said Cantro. “No men of mine have had anything to do with—”
“Three of your men were shot down in the Raw Leg Cantina,” the captain said, cutting him off. “One died, one stood up and ran away, and one was taken prisoner by two americanos . . . A fast gunman and the woman, Jane Crowly.”
“They weren’t my men, Captain,” Cantro insisted. “If they were, I’d have their hides for doing something like that.” He let his hand rest on the Winchester rifle across his lap. “You know how much I value the trust I’ve established with the Mexican government.”
“I know you have paid high-ranking officials with money you steal from the other side of the border,” Fuerte said coldly. “That is what I know.” As he spoke he raised a hand and summoned two soldiers to the front of his ranks. The soldiers escorted two civilians riding between them, one of them Cactus John Barker, the owner of the Raw Leg Cantina and Brothel in Trabajo Duro. The other civilian wore a battered stove-pipe hat and kept a nervous eye on Cantro’s men.
“Uh-oh,” Heaton whispered to himself, seeing the cantina owner’s face. He backed his horse a step and tried to put himself out of sight behind Arnold Stroud.
“Senor Cantro, do you know these two men? They are witnesses,” the captain said, gesturing toward Cactus John and the other civilian.
“Witnesses?” Cantro scoffed. “I know Cactus John Barker. But he was Bexar John Barker ’til he gut
poisoned half of Bexar County with snake head whiskey. Then he ran all the way to Trabajo Duro while they were all too sick to hang him.”
“Nothing but damned lies,” said Cactus John. “I built a sterling reputation making Kentucky sour mash with my own two hands.” He glared at Cantro. “And I’m damn proud of it.”
“Sure you are,” said Cantro with sarcasm in his voice. “I know this one too,” he said, staring at the other man. “His name is Paul Harrod—they call him the Bird.” He glared at Harrod and said to Cantro, “Ask him how many missing chickens it took for him to get his name. You couldn’t scrape together enough eggs to make breakfast ’til they threw him out of Colorado.” He shook his head and spit in contempt. “Witnesses? Ha!”
Harrod stiffened with indignation. “I admit I once dealt fast and loose with other people’s poultry. But that was years ago. I saw what Red Burke did in Suerte Buena, and I heard him say he did it under orders of Garris Cantro—”
“I won’t have chicken thieves and whiskey benders pointing fingers at me or my men,” said Cantro.
“Nevertheless, they are my witnesses,” the captain said stubbornly. To a soldier carrying blackened torches he said, “Provide light for the witnesses.”
Torches flared, and when they had been passed along to the two escorting soldiers, the men rode forward slowly, the two civilians between them. Cantro whispered to Stroud, who had inched up beside him, “Prepare to attack.”
When the two soldiers rode close enough for the circle of light to spread over most of Cantro’s men, Heaton ducked his head slightly and tugged down on his hat brim. But the two witnesses looked at each other and nodded. Without a word, they turned and rode back to the captain, the two soldiers carrying the torches on either side of them.
“He’s in among them,” said Cactus John.
“Are you certain?” asked the captain in a lowered voice.
“I’m damned certain,” said the cantina owner. “He tried to duck his face, but I got a good enough look at him first.”
“I don’t recognize any of these men from what happened in Suerte Buena,” said Harrod. “But that doesn’t change what I heard the one called Burke say about them riding for the Border Dogs.”
“I see,” the captain said with contemplation. “Both of you, go to the rear.”
The two turned their horses and rode back along the outside edge of the troops. “I don’t like the idea of tangling with these Confederate guerillas,” said Cactus John on their way. “They’re still fighting their damned war.”
“I know,” Harrod said quietly. He glanced back over his shoulder at the flickering torchlight on the trail. “I once nearly lost an eye over a careless remark to a soldier, and he was just a Union Regular. I hate to think what these Border Dogs are apt to do.”
Captain Fuerte waited until the civilians were safely in the rear; then he said to Cantro, “The man who was in Trabajo Duro with Red Burke is in your ranks, Senor Cantro. So he must be one of yours.”
“Being one of mine doesn’t mean he’s in the wrong, Captain,” said Cantro. “We best put this thing behind us and get on with what we were doing.”
“What I am doing is upholding the law here in these badlands,” said the captain.
“Yeah? And I happen to be chasing Jane Crowly and that gunman I told you about. You’re interfering in my business.”
“It cannot be helped, Senor Cantro,” said the captain with determination. “I must insist that you and your men hand over your guns and come with me. I have many more questions about why this Red Burke has gone around using your name while breaking the laws of my country.”
“We don’t hand over guns, Captain,” said Cantro. “In fact, just the thought of it makes me want to shoot somebody.” Behind Cantro, his men levered rifles and cocked hammers and shifted position. Seeing them prepare to attack, the Mexican soldiers did the same.
At the rear of the column Harrod turned to Cactus John and said, “Do you feel like we’ve done all we can here?”
“There ain’t a doubt in my mind,” Cactus John said, already backing his horse for a quick turnaround.
Farther along the moonlit high trail, Lawrence Shaw and Jane Crowly listened intently to the sudden eruption of gunfire in the distance behind them. “Sounds like Cantro and his Border Dogs just said howdy to that column of federales we saw,” Shaw said.
With swollen lips Jane still managed a smile of satisfaction. “I just hope they don’t kill the ones who did this to me. I’ve got bigger plans for them no-good sonsabitches.”
“So do I, Janie,” Shaw said almost to himself, the two of them riding the downward trail toward the wide stretch of sand hills below.
Chapter 21
Captain Fuerte’s soldiers were young, but seasoned and battle savvy. The fighting had started at a distance of only fifty feet, but within seconds both sides reeled back, pressed by the high volume of gunfire. As the space between them broadened, both soldiers and Border Dogs found cover over the rocky edge of the trail and down the steep hillside. Bodies of both sides lay broken and bleeding in the trail beneath a looming cloud of burned powder.
“Keep the horses covered!” shouted Stroud, hearing the whinny of a wounded animal among the rocks behind him. Three men had taken the reins to all of the horses and hurried away with them, to the shelter of taller rocks embedded in the sloping earth like a fortress wall. Beside Stroud, Cantro fought savagely. The two of them had taken cover behind a half-sunken boulder, and Roy Heaton hunkered down beside them.
“Get word back to the horse guards,” shouted Cantro to Stroud above the steadily pounding gunfire. “We’re not going to allow ourselves to be pinned here by Fuerte’s larger numbers. Tell them to get those horses back up onto the trail and meet us a hundred yards forward.”
“Yes, sir,” Stroud shouted in reply.
“You’re going to attack? In the dark? Our own guns will kill us!” Heaton shouted, gripping Stroud’s forearm.
“No, we’re going to attack, Heaton,” Stroud said boldly. “This includes you.” He jerked free of Heaton’s grip on his arm. “Don’t worry, our men know how to shoot straight ahead.” Having emptied his rifle, he laid it aside and drew his Colt. Arnold Stroud felt more at home in this kind of battle situation than he’d felt anywhere in a long time. He shouted at Cantro, “Shall I have the men form a Roman wedge, sir?”
“Yes, Arnold, this is just our move from here,” shouted Cantro. “You and I will spearhead that wedge.”
“Jesus!” said Heaton, looking sick at the thought of charging into a wall of bullets.
To Heaton, Stroud shouted, “Get back there and give the horse guards the message.”
“Now?” said Heaton, his eyes wide in terror, hearing what sounded like angry wasps zipping past inches above their heads.
“Yes, now!” shouted Stroud. The tip of his Colt came around and jammed into Heaton’s chest. “Now or never!”
“Easy, easy! I’m gone,” said Heaton. He turned quickly and crawled away slowly on his belly.
Stroud fired a bullet into the rocky ground only an inch from his head. “Get moving, Heaton!” he bellowed at him amid the relentless explosions of the Mexicans’ rifle fire.
Thirty yards away on the rock-strewn hillside, Captain Fuerte also lay behind the cover of a land-stuck boulder. But he lay sprawled on his back, his tunic open, a soldier stooped over him pressing a bandage to the bloody wound in his side. Hovering over him a young sergeant said, “We can keep them here as long as we choose to, Capitán.”
Fuerte considered it. He looked down at the wound on his side and asked the soldier dressing it, “How bad am I shot, Corporal?”
“It did not go deep, Capitán. Thank the Blessed Mother. But you will have to be—”
“Help me to my feet,” the captain said. “I must be able to get up and ride.”
The corporal and the sergeant exchanged a dubious glance.
“But, Capitán,” the young sergeant said. “These men can
go nowhere until you give me the word. We can hold them here or kill them all. You do not need to ride! This night is yours.”
“Si, Sergento, I heard everything you said,” Fuerte replied, “but it is not my wish to hold them here.”
“Then but say the word, and we will kill all of them, mi Capitán,” said the sergeant.
Captain Fuerte stared down, ignoring his pain, watching the corporal finish dressing the wound as he spoke to Sergeant Gasperez. “If we kill them here, Sargento, perhaps it will end the trouble for people of the badlands; perhaps it will not. I do not know if Cantro was responsible for the trouble here.” He looked up at the sergeant. “But if they are searching for the gold, as I believe they are, following them to it and taking it back from them will be good for all of Mejico.” He gave a smile in spite of his pain. “Will it not?”
“Of course, you are right, mi Capitán,” said the sergeant. Bullets whistled overhead and zinged wildly off the boulder. “We will let them leave and pursue them, then?”
“Do not let them through too easily, or they will know our intentions,” said the captain. “But let them fight their way through.”
“Si, mi Capitán,” said the sergeant. “It will be as you command.”
Captain Fuerte turned to the corporal, who had just finished bandaging his side. “To my feet, Corpóreo . My men must not see me lying on my back.”
While the fighting continued with no letup, Stroud, with only a hand signal, brought his Border Dog troops forward one, two and three at time until they managed to find cover in a way that left them spread out into a wedge with Cantro and Stroud at the foremost point. “Man!” said a newer, younger gunman named Marcus Prine to one of the older Border Dogs, “this ain’t my kind of fighting at all! This is the same as fighting a war!”
“All killing is like fighting a war,” the older gunman, Basil Kirkland, grimly replied.
“You know what I mean,” said Prine. His hands trembled on the stock of his rifle.
“Yeah, I do,” said Kirkland. “But this kind of fighting is a good thing for us now and then.” Raising his Winchester rifle and aiming at a muzzle flash in the dark he added, “It serves to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.”