Until Darkness Disappears (A Saga of Texas)

by Will Cook

  “I won’t promise a thing,” Hinshaw said, “but I wouldn’t duck anything.”

  “Wouldn’t ask you to, son. Now go to sleep.”

  Hinshaw figured this was impossible for the rocks were uncomfortable, and he was too keyed up for sleep, yet the next thing he knew was Bill Grady’s hand gently waking him.

  “Time to go, squirt.”

  They picketed the horses in a sheltered spot, then slowly worked their way down the trail. The night was clear, but starless, which cut their vision sharply yet afforded them a black cover that was more important than being able to see. The trail was steep and narrow but not as difficult as Hinshaw had first thought. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to take a horse up it, which limited any pursuit in case they had to beat a hasty retreat.

  Vargas’s camp was typical, a welter of disorder, with many cook fires and many small, independent camps making up the bulk of the larger over-all encampment. The late hour and many empty wine bottles helped still the activity. The three rangers skirted it, moving toward the first of the adobes.

  They crouched by a hide window and listened. They heard men sleeping, and McCabe motioned for them to move on. Hinshaw brought up the rear. They paused at two more of the adobes, and McCabe kept urging them on. At the fourth building McCabe nodded, and how he knew puzzled Hinshaw. Then he heard a girl crying, two men laughing, and a wine bottle clinking against a glass, and he understood how McCabe had drawn his conclusions. The girls would be kept busy; there wouldn’t be any snoring coming from that adobe.

  McCabe made a circling motion with his hand. Grady went one way, while Hinshaw and McCabe went the other. After circling close to the wall, they paused by the door. McCabe closed his fist and made striking motions. Both Hinshaw and Grady nodded, only Hinshaw looked around for something more solid than his fist. He didn’t want to take a chance on being able to knock his man out with one punch. Some crates stood nearby, and Hinshaw gently took off a heavy board from the top and again went to the door. McCabe reached out and rattled the latchstring. From inside a man swore in annoyance. The door opened, and Hinshaw used the butt end of the board like a ram and caught the Mexican in the pit of the stomach. The man blew out all his air in a gush and went down, completely unconscious. Grady and McCabe bowled into the room.

  A candle cast a faint light on the second Mexican and the two naked girls. Grady ducked a knife thrust, caught the Mexican’s arm, and whirled him so that Hinshaw could swing the board. He used it like a ball bat, as though he were driving a hot one clean over the fence, and the edge of the board caught the Mexican across the base of the skull. He went down with no cry at all.

  McCabe snatched up two blankets, threw them over the girls, and spoke softly. “We’re rangers. Make no sound.”

  They nodded mutely, too frightened or surprised to speak. Hinshaw took a look outside and saw that they had attracted no attention. He went out, and the others followed, moving more rapidly now toward the trail leading to the ridge.

  Before they cleared the camp, the younger girl started to whimper. Grady clapped a hand over her mouth and half carried her forward. McCabe, in spite of his bad leg, was keeping up. They worked to the top where the horses were hidden.

  Grady put one of the girls on his horse, and motioned for Hinshaw to ride with the other one. Then Grady chuckled and said: “Keeping that for a souvenir, squirt?” He pointed to the board in Hinshaw’s hand, and only then did he realize that he still carried it.

  He started to throw it away, changed his mind, and jammed it in his rifle boot. “Yeah, I think I will.” He swung up behind the girl, and lifted the reins. “Grady, did I do all right?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Hinshaw shook his head. “I was too scared.”

  “You did fine, son,” McCabe said. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here. It’s a long way to the river, and that camp’s going to be in an uproar in an hour.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  At dawn McCabe’s party was in the highest mountain reaches. He stopped for a rest, got a pair of field glasses from his saddlebag, and studied the trail they had just traveled. For a time he scanned it, then grunted softly. He handed the glasses to Martin Hinshaw. Far back, but following, was a group of bandidos, forty or fifty strong, if the dust they raised was any indication.

  Hinshaw handed the glasses back. “I didn’t think we’d get away with it.”

  “We’ll get away with it, but it’ll be the last time,” McCabe said. “I was figurin’ on the Mexican way of doing things. They felt safe in camp and had no guards. We did what they thought could never be done… walked in and took what we wanted and walked right out. But we’ll never surprise ’em again, son. Vargas will have guards posted from now on.” He nodded toward the two girls huddled together. “Talk to ’em.”

  “What’ll I say?”

  “It’s a young man’s job. You’ll think of something.” He gave Hinshaw a gentle shove.

  Bill Grady was near the horses, watching Hinshaw, and Hinshaw wished that he’d stop that. He couldn’t think of a thing to say. A man just couldn’t walk up and ask if they were all right when he knew that they weren’t and probably would never be again. They were pretty girls, in a big-boned way. He went to his horse on impulse, opened his bedroll, and took out the extra shirt and pants and underwear that he carried.

  He bundled them under his arm and went over to where they sat. “It’s the best I can do, ladies. I hope you understand.” The older one looked at him for a moment, then her lips moved soundlessly in a brief thank you. Hinshaw motioned for Grady. “Bring my blanket here, Bill, You take one end, and I’ll take the other. We’ll hold this up and turn our backs, ladies. You tell us when you’re dressed.”

  They stood that way for a few minutes, then the older girl said: “All right.” Bill Grady took Hinshaw’s blanket back, rolled the pack, and lashed it behind the saddle.

  “I wish we could offer you some coffee or somethin’,” Hinshaw told them. “My name’s Marty.”

  The older one said: “I’m Rhea. My sister is Alice.” She looked at her hands and folded them in her lap. She remained sitting that way, her head tipped forward.

  Guthrie McCabe said: “We could risk a small fire for a pot of coffee. Tend to it, Bill.”

  “The brush is too green to burn,” Grady said. “Say, Marty, you want to contribute your souvenir for firewood?”

  “It’s in my rifle boot,” Hinshaw said. He reached out and touched Alice Cardeen’s hand. “You’re going to be all right now.”

  “Are we?” Rhea asked.

  Hinshaw fell silent for a moment. “Ladies, I hate to tell you, but they didn’t leave anyone alive at your home place.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rhea said. “We’re not alive, either. Not really. Not now.”

  Grady said: “Hey, squirt, come here!”

  Grady stood there, holding the board in his hands. McCabe came over as Hinshaw sided Grady. Then Hinshaw saw what had drawn Grady’s interest. The board had been a part of the top of a crate and on it, in black paint, were some letters, smudged over but still legible.

  RLY

  XAS

  Hinshaw said: “Half of the R and half of the X. Fred J. Early, Laredo, Texas. Does anyone think differently?”

  “Not likely,” McCabe said softly. “Well, well, very interesting. Son, what kind of a crate did you jerk this off of? Or don’t you remember?”

  Hinshaw thought a moment. “I guess it would have been about the size of a rifle case or a little bigger. You can see how long the board is.”

  “Get your Winchester, Bill,” McCabe said.

  Grady got it, and McCabe measured it and found the crate to be longer. He said: “About the right length for a German Mauser rifle.”

  “Or one of those machine guns,” Grady said. “You still want the coffee, Captain?”

  “Not if it means burning this piece of wood,” McCabe said. “Express my regrets to the ladies, son.”

 
“How come I got to … oh, all right.”

  “I think it best that we move on anyway,” McCabe said. “Sorry, but we really have little choice in the matter.” He walked over and stood halfway between Hinshaw and Grady. “I don’t have to explain to a couple of Texas men the why of my next order. The Mexicans are not going to follow us for twenty miles and give up, so it becomes necessary to travel fast. Grady, I’ll have to take the horses for the ladies.”

  “No, that’s not fair!” Rhea Cardeen said.

  McCabe held up his hand. “This is ranger business. Hinshaw, take the rifles and what supplies you two will need. And I’ll see you in Laredo.”

  After a glance at Grady, who acted as though this made no difference at all with him, Hinshaw hurriedly got what gear he wanted, then stood back while McCabe and the girls mounted up. He shook hands with each man, then rode off.

  After they quickly passed from sight, Grady said: “Let’s backtrack. Take your knife and cut some brush. We’ll wipe out a mile or so of tracks before the Mexicans catch up with us.”

  Hinshaw said: “My pa used to tell me that, when you traded with the Indians, you made your deal fast and got out before they figured out they’d been cheated. McCabe left in a big hurry, seems like.”

  “McCabe used to be a trader with the Indians,” Grady said. “Let’s go, squirt.”

  “I sure wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Hinshaw said, and began chopping brush.

  They worked along the back trail, dragging a clump of brush behind them, wiping out all sign of prior passage. After an hour of this Grady threw his piece of brush away and started to climb into the rocks. Hinshaw followed him, and, when they finally stopped, both men were out of breath. They hunkered down in a pocket that commanded a good view of the climbing trail. Far down it, a dust spiral rose in the still, dawn air. Grady said: “Company.”

  The Mexicans came into view, fifty mounted men led by Pedro Vargas. When Hinshaw saw him, he lifted his rifle and said: “I can do what the State of Texas couldn’t.”

  “You want to get killed for it?” Grady asked. “Simmer down, squirt. It’s going to be a hot day.”

  The Mexican bandits found the petered-out trail and stopped to talk it over. Vargas held a brief conference, then split his men into three sections, one to ride back and two to go on to see if they could pick up the trail ahead.

  “Time to go,” Grady said, and they left the pocket, working on up the ridge and starting down the other side into a brush-choked ravine. They spent a miserable three hours beating their way through this and stopped at a small stream to fill their canteens.

  “It’s a good place to hole up,” Grady said. “Tomorrow night we’ll try to recross the ridge and make it to the river. I’d rather float along than walk.”

  Traveling on the river had never occurred to Hinshaw. He said: “How far does the river go?”

  “It leads into a lake, that I know,” Grady said. He stretched out on the ground. “We’ll find it, when we get there.”

  Hinshaw studied him at length. “Don’t this bother you, being afoot with the whole country swarming with bandits?”

  “Squirt, if I let everything bother me that came across my path, I’d have worry lines on my face an inch deep.” He reached out and slapped Hinshaw on the arm. “You just stick with your old Uncle Bill, and, by the time we get to Laredo, you’ll be a grown-up Texas man.”

  “You keep digging your spurs into me,” Hinshaw said, “you’ll have a fat lip by the time we get to Laredo.” He shook his head. “For the life of me I can’t understand why I didn’t belt you instead of Anderson in the hotel room. You seemed such a nice guy at the time.”

  “It just goes to show you that you never can tell,” Grady said. “Hope the old man makes it back. He’s got a job cut out for him, though Those Mexicans have got a lot of Indian blood in them . . . they’re good trackers. It won’t take them long to figure out that two of us are afoot, and they’ll be trying to take up our trail. Late tonight will be time enough for us to break out. I don’t think they’d expect us to move in their direction and break through, so that’s where we’ll go. I learned that fighting Indians.”

  “Hell, there weren’t any Indians to fight by the time you got old enough,” Hinshaw said.

  Grady made a wry face. “Now you’ve gone and ruined one of my favorite lies.”

  They slept until dark. Grady seemed to be in no hurry to get going. Finally he moved out and started up the face of the mountain, but stopped as soon as the brush began to thin out. He and Hinshaw waited two hours, and they didn’t talk. Finally Grady heard what he wanted to hear—horsemen moving around below them, pushing their way through the brush.

  He led the way, climbing into the rocks, taking the hard, short way to the ridge far above them. The going was tough, and Hinshaw’s muscles began to ache and his breath grew short, but there was no stopping. When they reached the ridge, they found some mounted men moving along the trail. They waited until there was an opportunity, then slipped through them, and hunkered down two hundred yards beyond.

  Grady thumped Hinshaw on the arm and made a silent clapping motion with his hands, then turned and slowly began to move down the other face of the slope. He came across a deer trail and took it, saying without stopping: “The game will use this before morning. There won’t be a trace of our tracks.”

  “I suppose you learned that Indian fighting?”

  “You’re getting smarter all the time, squirt.”

  Morning caught them in a valley. They took cover in some thick brush, ate cold beef and hard bread, then slept. The day was hot, and any sound woke them. In the afternoon a Mexican with a squeaky-wheeled cart came by. They watched him until he passed out of sight and didn’t speak until the ox bell could no longer be heard ringing.

  “How far to the river?” Hinshaw asked.

  “Another day, I guess,” Grady said. “We’ll travel at sundown.”

  “Couldn’t we steal a couple of horses?”

  “These peons don’t have horses. Besides a missing horse would draw attention to us. Walking’s good for the soul, squirt. If McCabe kept going, he ought to be near the border by now. The girls wouldn’t slow him much, I don’t guess. They’re made out of tough stuff when it comes down to it.”

  “That older one,” Hinshaw said, “sounded like she’d about give up.”

  Grady shook his head. “She’s been to hell and back, but one of these days a good man will come along and make her forget all that.”

  “Yeah, but can that man forget?”

  “I said, a good man, squirt.” He fell silent for a moment. “She’s kind of a pretty thing. I’ve seen her once or twice before . . . in town just last week.”

  “I didn’t know you knew about women,” Hinshaw said, smiling. “I figured you for a curly wolf who liked his horse and that was all.” He stretched out. “Ain’t you a little old for her, Grady?”

  “My pa was fifty the day he got married, and my ma was seventeen. He didn’t worry about being too old for her, but her being too old for him.”

  “I’ll bet that’s another of your lies,” Hinshaw said, and went back to sleep.

  * * * * *

  They walked out the night, moving north. It was tiring, for the miles were telling, and they just weren’t walking men at heart. They had to be careful as they encountered roads and small farms and dogs, now and then, that would start barking. Every light they saw come on was a danger to them.

  Twice they came close to meeting a posse of Mexican rurales, but they took cover, and this danger passed on. Hinshaw didn’t have to be told what would happen if they were captured by rurales. This corrupt police force would sell them to one of Vargas’s henchmen for a hundred pesos, and they’d die slowly and in a lot of pain.

  A dark line of dense trees marked the riverbank. When they reached it, they sat down and listened to the water gurgle against the bank.

  “I feel like a cigarette,” Grady said, and rolled one, then passed th
e makings to Hinshaw. They took their light off one match, then leaned back and enjoyed this brief pleasure. When the cigarettes were too short to hold, Grady got up. “You go upstream and look for a dead log near the bank. I’ll move down a ways. If you find something, whistle once.”

  Hinshaw explored, but found nothing. Shortly he heard Grady’s low whistle and went back. Grady stood near deadfall half over the riverbank.

  “Just what I want,” he said. “All those branches will keep it from rolling over all the time. Give me a hand. We’ll see if we can ease it in.”

  They had to use the other branches as peaveys, and finally they managed to get the log afloat. Grady hooked a foot in one of the branches to keep the current from taking it on downstream. Then he took off his boot, switched feet, got the other off, and wrapped his boots in his coat. Hinshaw imitated him. They tied the sleeves of their coats around the bole of the log and thrust their rifles and gun belts between the bundle and the log.

  “Always keep your gunpowder dry,” Grady said, and laughed softly.

  “Boy, you sure know how to amuse yourself,” Hinshaw said. He lowered himself in the water and clung to the log. “Shove off there, huh, admiral.”

  Grady gave a push, grabbed the log, and the current started to move them gently downstream. He watched the bank move past, slowly, steadily, then he said: “I can’t even feel the blisters on my feet now. This is really livin’, ain’t it, squirt?”

  “I don’t know why it is,” Hinshaw said, “but all the people I seem to associate with are real nuts. This damned water’s cold.”

  “So’s a grave,” Bill Grady said. “I’ll take the water.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Captain Guthrie McCabe and the two Cardeen girls made the journey from Lampazos de Naranjo to Laredo in complete comfort, riding in General Juan del Norte Vallejo Guadalupe Hildago’s personal carriage and escorted by the general’s aide-de-camp and fifty armed soldiers, picked personally for their bravery and devotion to duty and to Mexico. Under the existing treaty provisions, armed soldiers were not permitted on the American side, so the entire escort stacked arms on the Mexican side of the river and crossed in a body, delivering McCabe and his charges to Ranger Headquarters.