Stryker's Ambush ( a Stryker Western #2)

by Chuck Tyrell

  Like many southwestern Mexican towns, Nogales was made of adobe. A church stood on one side of the plaza, a cantina on another. Opposite the church, a general store, and opposite the cantina, a small rooming house. When Americans began to take over the town after the Gadsden Purchase, they saw no need to erect wooden structures as pine lumber had to be hauled from the headwaters of the Black River. Adobe served well.

  Stryker kept to the road, heading for Mexico.

  “Stryker. Matt Stryker. What in Hell are you doing here?”

  He glanced at the man who called. Then looked again. “Sid Lyle?” He reined the zebra over to where Lyle stood under the overhang of the cantina. “I could ask you the same question.”

  “I ride shotgun on Hale & Hodges stage. Stopped here overnight. Drink?”

  “I could use some good black coffee and a decent breakfast. Nogales have anything like that?”

  “¿Huevos rancheros?”

  “Lead me to it.” Stryker climbed off the zebra and led him as the two tall men walked down the street together. He pulled his bandana out and wiped away the tears.

  “Heard Jake Cahill had a go at you with fists full a lead,” Lyle said. “Ya don’t look too bad, considering.”

  “He won’t be doing it again.”

  Lyle barked a laugh. “Heard that, too. Ness Havelock figures you’re a man to ride the river with.”

  “So’s he.”

  “That he is.” Lyle stopped at a low adobe building with the faded word Mamacita on the front wall. Mouth-watering aromas issued from the open door. “Alejandro’s the man who watches the room while Magdelina cooks,” he said. “Coffee’s OK.”

  Only two customers in the small eatery. They nodded at Lyle. “Hale & Hodges people,” he said to Stryker.

  An old Mexican man came in, a towel over his arm. His face looked like it had lived many more years in the fields than under a roof. “Señores, buenas dias. ¿Lo que ustedes se comen y beben?”

  “Dos café, Alejandro,” Lyle said. “Y un huevos rancheros por favor.”

  “Sí, Señor Lyle. inmediatamente.” He ducked back into the kitchen. Stryker could hear him talking to a woman.

  “Why you traveling through Nogales, if I can ask?” Lyle took off his black hat and hung it on the tree in the corner near the table.

  Stryker followed suit. “Curious as hell about the Nogales Guards,” he said.

  “Man named Bills wanted me to sign up as officer of that bunch.”

  “And?” Stryker wiped his face again.

  “What happened to that Arabian stud you used to ride?”

  The Mexican man came in with two pottery cups of coffee. He put one down in front of Lyle. “¿Con leche?” he asked Stryker.

  “Solo, por favor,” Lyle said, pointing at Stryker.

  The man put Stryker’s cup on the table.

  “Saif’s at Wolf Wilder’s place. Wolf let me ride the zebra dun. Said it was better in the desert than my black. So, are you an officer?”

  Lyle tasted the coffee, raised his eyebrows, then took another sip. “Not half bad,” he said. “I’ve got a job riding shotgun on that stagecoach.”

  “Any idea what Bills wants to do with all them Guards? I don’t see many bandits around.”

  Lyle leaned toward Stryker. “Seems he’s gonna capture the northern half of Sonora and claim it for America. He says the border should be straight west on the 19th parallel. Says his Nogales Guards’re gonna make it thataway.” Lyle put his elbows on the table and lifted the coffee cup up in front of his mouth.

  “Only two little Rurales posts between here and Peñasco, and they’ll probably run rather than fight.”

  Alejandro came from the kitchen with a platter of huevos rancheros. “Señor,” he said, as he put the plate of eggs and salsa and tortillas and refried beans in front of Stryker. “Gozarse.”

  “Gracias,” Stryker said. He dug into his breakfast, and while he ate, conversation lagged. Soon finished, he wiped his mouth with his bandana, swiped away the tears on his cheek, and sighed. “Damned good,” he said. “Now I guess I gotta stop Bills’s little army.”

  “How?” Lyle asked.

  With Rurales and Apaches and Yaquis,” Stryker said.

  Lyle finished his coffee. “Mind if I tag along?” he said.

  Chapter Nine

  Norrosso appeared beside Sparrow. “Smoke,” he said.

  Without another word, the two Apaches left the small cavern where they waited with Alfredo McLaws.

  Sparrow was soon back. “Stryker comes,” he said. “As a favor, we ask you to wait for him.”

  “Bien,” Alfredo said. There was little else he could do. These men had found him, yet none threatened him. They were seasoned warriors, but he tasted no danger from them. If he were to decide to leave, they would not seek to harm him, but would follow him so that his man Stryker would always know where he was. Better to wait, he decided.

  Alfredo sat still as death itself, except for the almost undetectable rise and fall of his chest. He sat with eyes closed, relaxed, yet every sense was alert. He heard the clop of horses long before Sparrow came into the cavern with two gringos.

  Both stood tall, their white man’s hats nearly brushing the roof of the cavern. The one with the scarred face spoke. “Alfredo McLaws. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I have heard much of you. I am Matthew Stryker. This man,” he indicated the other gringo, “is Sid Lyle.”

  Alfredo nodded but said nothing.

  “People in Arizona say you stopped the Hale & Hodges stage at Mule Pass. They say you killed everyone and took valuables belonging to the American government.”

  Alfredo said nothing, his eyes hooded.

  “Ness Havelock says you did not do this thing,” Stryker said.

  “I did not.”

  Stryker nodded. “I also believe this,” he said. “But I must ask you to come with me to see Marshal Havelock.”

  “Let me show you something,” Alfredo said, speaking in English. No one looked surprised. He opened the drawstring of his pouch, extracted a letter, and held it out to Stryker.

  “May I?” Stryker asked.

  Alfredo nodded.

  Stryker took the letter. It was sealed with a blob of wax. Pressed into the wax was the Roman Two brand of rancho Pilar. He did not attempt to unseal the letter. “What does it say,” he asked.

  “It promises Cajeme, the leader of the Yaquis in Cocorit, help in gaining some independence from the rotten government in Mexico City,” he said. “I have this letter. Nothing else.”

  “If I may ask, where did you get the letter?”

  “From Miguel Fernando de Pilar y Rodrigues. But it is signed by Don Fernando himself. Miguel said so. I believe him.”

  “Hmmm.” Stryker gave the letter back. He sat on the floor of the cavern, putting himself lower than Alfredo, who had a sandstone seat. “Let me tell you what I know,” he said.

  “I listen,” Alfredo said.

  Stryker told him everything Havelock said, everything he’d learned from Doc Goodfellow, and everything that was going on in Nogales.

  Alfredo shrugged. “Why should I worry about Mexicanos and Americanos and Federales and these Nogales Guards?” he asked.

  “These Nogales Guards are going to march into Mexico and try to take a long strip of territory away.”

  “So?”

  “The Mexican government will not be happy.”

  “So?”

  “Unhappy government won’t listen when you ask for autonomy.”

  “Autonomy?”

  Stryker swiped at the tears from his ruined eye socket with a bandana. “Self rule. A kind of independence,” he said, “like the Yaqui people want.”

  Alfredo nodded gravely. “Autonomy. Independence. I like that word,” he said.

  Stryker leaned forward, his face earnest. “Alfredo. I’m going to try to stop the Nogales Guards. I need your help.”

  “My help? I thought you wanted to take me in.”

  “M
aybe. Maybe not.”

  Alfredo stared at the cavern wall across from him. “What do you want?” he finally asked.

  Stryker took a deep breath. “Twenty good Yaqui warriors,” he said.

  That morning, the Nogales Guards turned out in new uniforms of desert tan with black trouser stripes and insignia. To Artemus Canby, they now appeared more like a military unit, even if their deportment lacked the snap of a true Army detachment. They had learned how to go to breakfast mess without fistfights breaking out here and there. True, they were, in a way, mercenaries, but they had signed up to be in the Nogales Guards, and as commanding officer, by God, he would turn them into a fighting force.

  Three troops of twenty soldiers, with three sergeants and one captain, and one troop of heavy weapons to provide support with two Gatling guns—the Nogales Guards now consisted of more than ninety men, nearly full compliment. Not many military units on the frontier could stand up to the Nogales Guards, at least in numbers.

  Troops A, B, and C performed their mounted parade movements, which were designed to help keep horsemen together in the field as well. And as Canby left the encampment, the stutter of Gatling gunfire came from an arroyo slightly south of the camp, where he and the heavy weapons troop officers had set up a firing range. His eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth threatened to turn upward. How many frontier units had Gatling guns? Who could stand up to the Nogales Guards, which had dozens of seasoned former military men and officers who had seen action and knew, he hoped, how to maintain discipline under fire.

  At Harry’s, the noon meal was already on the table and Jason Bills sat slouched in a high-back chair with a glass of lemonade at his elbow. He glanced up as Canby entered, but offered no greeting.

  “The men look fine in their uniforms, Jason, fine indeed,” Canby said. He pulled a chair out, sat opposite Bills, and reached for a slice of sourdough bread.

  “But can they march? Can they go across miles of trackless desert and engage the enemy? Will they stand, Artemus, will they stand?”

  “Men are men,” Canby said. “And men enrolled in a cause are always stronger than men enrolled merely for a wage.” He sipped at the lemonade, then took a bite of buttered sourdough. He held Bills’ stare as he chewed. He swallowed. “Our Guards signed up for a wage. I think they need greater motivation if they are to become a first-class fighting force.”

  “Such as?”

  “That’s where you come in. Perhaps you’d like to come and address the Guards when they fall in prior to evening mess.”

  “Hmmm.” Bills wrinkled his brow and folded his arms. “Hmmm.” He frowned at the tabletop. “Perhaps you are correct. I shall be at the parade ground before sundown. Please make sure there is a riser there for me to stand on. Troops should look up to those who address them on important matters.”

  Canby could not keep the pleasure from showing on his face. “Capital,” he said. “The men will be more assured when they hear of the great mission that is ours to perform. Capital. Yes, sir, capital.”

  One of Harry’s new men pushed his way into the lounge with a large platter of food on his shoulder. He put it in the center of the table. “Roast javelina,” he said. “Can’t hardly tell it from pork. Hardly. Got some roast hedgehog cactus, too. Kind of like a cross between potatoes and cucumbers. Works purty good under that milk gravy the cook made up. Mashed beans. Cook put a dab of butter in ‘em. Should be right tasty. Be back in a jiffy with plates and all.” He sped off to the saloon at a half trot.

  “Appears to me that this town could use some good farmers,” Canby said. “The Guards must make do on less than optimum foodstuffs, too.”

  “On the march, they’ll do with salt meat and beans, Colonel. Whatever they get now should be better than that,” Bills said.

  “Soldiers can live off the land if necessary. Although I imagine there’s precious little to live on out in the Sonora Desert. Where in Hell are the God-forsaken plates?” Canby looked forward to marching out as soon as he got the troops ready. The campaign would surely prove his grasp of military tactics.

  The saloon man reappeared with plates in one hand and cutlery in the other. He set a plate in front of Canby and another in front of Bills, then laid out a knife, fork, and spoon by each plate. “Coffee in a minute,” he said, and disappeared back into the saloon.

  Canby forked a piece of javelina onto his plate and used a dipper to cover it with gravy. He cut a bite-size chunk off and put it carefully into his mouth. It would not do to get gravy on his uniform blouse. “Not bad,” he said, even though his mouth was full of half-chewed wild pig. He chewed and swallowed. “Not bad at all.”

  “You’d never think so if you remember what the meat comes from. But I reckon wild pig isn’t all that different in concept from wild deer or wild buffalo.” Bills waited until he’d had his say to pop a portion of roast javelina and gravy into his mouth.

  The rest of the meal proceeded without conversation. They didn’t look up when the coffee came, and they didn’t talk while there was anything to eat left on the table.

  “Well,” Bills said at last. “How many of the Guards do you think are fit to move out?”

  “Move out? Move out to where?”

  “Mr. Canby. Why did we organize the Nogales Guards?”

  “Why, to annex the land above the 19th parallel, which rightfully belongs to Arizona . . . Arizona and the great republic of the United States of America, that’s why.”

  “Precisely. But we cannot annex that land while sitting here with our thumbs in our anuses, can we?”

  “True, of course, but I would like a month to get the troops ready,” Canby said.

  Bills leaned forward over his empty plate. “Colonel Canby,” he said. “The Nogales Guards will move out the morning of the third day from today. In my book, that day is Monday, so all the Guards may want to have a minister or a friar or someone pray for them on the Sabbath.”

  “Monday?”

  “Yes. Monday. You can have morning mess, then saddle up and move out. The supply wagons will follow.”

  “But . . . but . . . but I’ve not planned the campaign yet.”

  “You have two days.” Bills got a map from the sideboard and moved the empty dishes over so he could unroll it on the table. “In principle, you will drive a straight line through Altar and Costa Rica, and on to Puerto Peñasco. Roughly fifty miles to the first village where our people say there is a small Rurales outpost. Then fifty more miles to Costa Rica, and a little less than fifty to Peñasco. You will subdue any and everything that gets in your way. Could your mission be stated any more clearly?”

  “But . . . but . . . but Mr. Bills. I command the Nogales Guards.”

  “That you do. But time and again, history has proved that military minds are not capable of ruling civilian populations, or making political decisions. Such things are best left to those of us who have clear sight and far-reaching connections. So, Colonel, if you would be so good as to ready the Nogales Guards to move out on Monday morning, that would be extremely satisfactory. I’ll give them a motivational address this evening.”

  The saloon waiter showed up with two plates of empanadas, crisply fried in deep fat. “Empanadas,” he said, “with prickly pears in honey.” He quick-timed it back to the saloon.

  Bills picked up an empanada with thumb and forefinger, pinky raised like some Boston rake. He nibbled at it, then took a healthy bite. “Amazing what a good cook can do with wild ingredients,” he said. “This is quite tasty. Very tasty, in fact.”

  “I’m not particularly interested in eating cactus,” Canby said. He left his empanadas on the plate, and savored the coffee instead of eating sweetmeats.

  Bills finished his empanadas and stared at those on Canby’s plate. “T’would be a shame to waste those,” he said, nodding at the pile of empanadas sitting in front of Canby. “If you’re not going to eat them . . .”

  “Help yourself,” Canby said. He pushed back his chair. “If you will excuse me, I ha
ve a campaign to plan.”

  When the sun touched the edges of the Arizuma mountains to the west, the Nogales Guards fell in on the parade grounds, forming four companies; three of cavalry and one of heavy weapons. The men even looked somewhat military in their bearing.

  As Colonel Canby walked onto the parade ground, four master sergeants shouted, almost as one, “Nogales Guards, atten-hut!”

  The men came to attention almost together. Canby saw that two days of drill had not turned the Nogales Guards into seasoned troops, even though many had served in armies in the past. “Put the men at ease, gentlemen,” he said to the officers, who repeated the order to the master sergeants.

  “A Company, at ease.”

  The order was repeated down the line of troops and soon all ninety men, non-coms, and officers of the Nogales Guards stood with feet apart and hands clasped against the small of their backs.

  “Nogales Guards,” Canby said in his parade-ground voice. “Before mess, we shall be addressed by the gentleman who conceived and organized the Nogales Guards itself. The honorable Jason Bills.”

  Bills clambered up on the riser that Nogales carpenters had hastily built from old planks from broken-down wagons and horseshoe nails. It felt none too solid, so Bills stood carefully as he cleared his throat and began to speak.

  “Before the recent war, and after the war with Mexico that ended in ’48, a group of American negotiators headed by James Gadsden bought some nine thousand square miles of land from Mexico. At about the same time, William Walker set out to annex the Baja California peninsula and the Mexican state of Sonora. Walker went with fifty men, and came within a hair’s breadth of success. Gadsden’s purchase left Arizona and the United States without a deep-water seaport on the Sea of Cortez. Gadsden seems to have ignored one of the great principles upon which the United States of America was founded, the principle of Manifest Destiny. It is our God-given destiny to claim our rightful position upon this the North American continent. By all rights, men of the Nogales Guards, by all rights, the border between Mexico and Arizona should be a straight line that lies on the 19th parallel. By all rights,” he shouted.