Stryker's Ambush ( a Stryker Western #2)

by Chuck Tyrell

  The men dutifully huzzahed.

  “Now. The Nogales Guard shall march that borderline from Nogales to Puerto Peñasco. The march is hardly more than on hundred fifty miles. March, engage any Mexican forces that may be in the way, garner any booty that may be in their possession, and establish the new and proper southern border of Arizona and the United States upon the 19th parallel. You, the rightfully organized Nogales Guards, shall write a very important chapter in the history of the southwest and of the entire United States. Glory Halleluyah. May God guide you every step of the way from here to Puerto Peñasco. Let this be your rallying cry. Nogales Guards! For God and country. Onward! For God and country!”

  “Let’s hear it,” Canby roared. “Sergeants.”

  “Nogales Guards. Onward. For God and country!” they shouted. And shouted again. All the Nogales Guards joined in, and the air shook with their shout of “Nogales Guards. Onward. For God and country!”

  Chapter Ten

  Alfredo McLaws no longer hid as he made his way to Cocorit. He knew every place where water could be found. He knew where to shade up when the sun scorched the land. And he knew every plant and animal and bird in the desert; which were edible, which held poison, which healed the body, and which were better left completely alone.

  In two days, he traveled more than a hundred miles. As he kept up his tireless trot through the Sonora, he thought about what the scarfaced Stryker told him. How an invasion by white men would upset the balance in Mexico. How any defeat of the Rurales could well cause them to take out their frustration on the native population: the Yaqui, the Pima, and the Opata. He remembered the stories of the man called Stryker. How he had always captured the men he pursued. How he had been ambushed by evil men in a place called Ponderosa and savagely beaten. And how he’d exacted revenge on the men who disfigured him. He rode a zebra dun from Yudisthur, the Cheyenne. He carried word from Havelock, a man to trust, and not just because of his Cherokee blood.

  Alfredo rethought everything that convinced him to fetch Yaqui warriors to fight the white men of the army Stryker called the Nogales Guards. He rethought and rethought, and each time, the answer was the same. It was right for Alfredo, it was right for the Yaqui, and it was right for Mexico, although Alfredo and his Yaqui brothers had no comprehension of Mexico as a country.

  Men stood ready when Alfredo entered the village of Cocorit. The Yaqui farmed the hard soil of southern Sonora, raising corn and beans. They fished from the rocky shore and caught sea bass and flatfish and bream as bright as a desert sunset. And they knew Alfredo came because the men of Cocorit ever set a watch on the heights, and Alfredo ran boldly into their sight. He saw the signal from the high place, and he saw that it said, “Friend.” Nevertheless, the men of Cocorit carried their sabers and held their Enfields in the crooks of their arms as they stood waiting. Alfredo smiled. These men were farmers and fishermen, but they could fight the fearsome Apache and Seti to a standstill. In fact, neither tribe bothered to attempt raids on Yaqui villages now. The price was too high.

  The line of men blocked the way into Cocorit. High ground to the left, high ground to the left. Unless a warrior snuck across the highlands, he had to approach Cocorit from the north along this path.

  “I come with news,” Alfredo said, keeping his Winchester slanted against the crook of his elbow and his hand off the action.

  “Welcome,” said Kabil. “Cajeme waits.”

  In fact, Cajeme did wait in his adobe house. He waited with a pot of rock crabs boiled with beans and wild onions, quail spitted and well roasted over mesquite coals, and mescal brewed from agave. He waited to learn what news Alfredo bore.

  “Come. Come,” Cajeme said at the gate in the adobe wall that surrounded his home. “Come, we shall eat and drink a little, then you can tell us all.”

  “As you wish,” Alfredo said. He removed his hat as he stepped inside. The elders of Cocorit already sat at a large table in a room only steps from the outdoor cooking area where women tended large clay ovens and fire pits.

  “There,” Cajeme said, indicating with his left hand that Alfredo should take the seat at the south end of the table. Cajeme sat at the opposite end.

  “Alfredo has returned,” Cajeme said. “Let us partake of the fruits of land and sea in celebration.” He clapped his hands and women entered with platters and bowls and knives and spoons, which they placed before the elders, Cajeme, and Alfredo.

  To Alfredo, who had not tasted anything from the sea for many months, the crab tasted especially succulent, though separating the meat from the carapace took skill and patience. He found he still knew how.

  When the meal was finished and the women had cleared the utensils from the table, Cajeme spoke. “Alfredo has returned,” he said again. “Let us hear somewhat of his travels.”

  Everyone looked expectantly at Alfredo.

  “Our leader Cajeme sent me north to the hacienda of Don Fernando Alfonso de Pilar y Aquilar. We sought his help, and he freely offers it.”

  Hints of smiles showed on the elders’ faces.

  “But I happened upon something that may be of greater import,” Alfredo said, and he told them everything that Stryker explained to him. “It is my thought that the scarfaced man called Stryker is correct,” he said. “I would request of the council that it assign nineteen men to accompany me. We will go to Altar, or perhaps Costa Rica, where we will meet with Stryker and Apaches from the White Mountains and the rancherias of Mojave, and perhaps the Rurales of Sonora. And we will turn the army that calls itself Nogales Guards back the way they came, if any survive.”

  After Alfredo’s report, the council deliberated, and deliberated, until Cajeme said, “Alfredo, I will give you nineteen men—five young, five well-seasoned, and the others with the skills expected of a Yaqui. I will pray for their safe return.”

  Three men rode into Nuestro Senora de Guadalupe del Altar, the town most often called just Altar. One with a tormented look and shockingly scarred face. One with a serape, which many Mexicans wore, but with eyes like an eagle. One in dusty black with blond hair curling to his collar and eyes the color of ice on a deep mountain lake.

  “I’ll go to the Rurales,” Stryker said. He wiped at the tears on his scared face with a faded blue bandana.

  “Need backup?” asked Sid Lyle, the man in black.

  “Should be no big problem, but you might hang around somewhere close.”

  “I will sleep in the plaza,” Sparrow said. “No one bothers a sleeping man.”

  Stryker gave Sparrow a lopsided grin. “Don’t know as I’ve ever seen you sleep, Sparrow. That’d be some sight, I reckon.” His face went serious again. “What do you think, Lyle? These people look like Pimas to me.”

  Lyle shook his head. “Dunno. Not up on southern tribes. Sparrow?”

  “I think Pima also.”

  “It’ll be interesting talking to the Rurales,” Stryker said, “but it’s gotta be done.”

  The presidio of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe del Altar had protected the people of the Altar for more than a century, and its lack of upkeep and care showed in cracks that ran down the adobe walls like summer lightning bolts. The gates of Devil’s Claw trunks leaned against the hinge posts as if tired by the years that had passed since their construction. At the moment, they were open, as the so-called Yaqui rebellion did not reach this far north. Stryker rode through the open gates without challenge, but a corporal in faded blue tunic and what were once white pants stood in his way, a Henry rifle held at port arms. Behind him, a company of Rurales did close-order drill under the sharp eye of another corporal. To Stryker, they looked like they needed a lot more drilling.

  “Alto,” the corporal called. “Declare su objetivo. Um, why are you here, señor?”

  “Comandante,” Stryker said. “I came to speak with your comandante.”

  “¿Por que?”

  “I have news for his ears only,” Stryker said, his voice hard and flinty.

  The corporal seemed to hesi
tate. Perhaps there was a reason why the presidio’s commander could not see visitors. “Or the officer of the day, jefe hoy.” Stryker had no idea if his attempt at Spanish made sense, but the corporal’s face brightened.

  “Si, Senor. ¿Como se llama? Who wishes to see the teniente?”

  “My name is Matthew Stryker, from the United States, from Arizona.”

  “Muy bien,” the corporal said, and indicated a hitching rail. “Tie your horse there, Señor.” He did not attempt to disarm Stryker.

  Stryker dismounted the zebra and looped the reins over the rail. He pulled the bandana from his pocket to wipe at his tears, and he left his Winchester in its saddle scabbard.

  “This way, Senor.” The corporal led the way to one of the rooms that lined the inside of the presidio’s walls. He rapped on the door. “Tenente,” he yelled. “Americano esta aqui para hablar con usted.”

  “¡Adelante!”

  Stryker thought the voice sounded almighty young for an officer. The corporal pushed the door open and stepped back. Stryker entered the glooming room to find a young man, probably still in his teens, standing near the center of the room.

  He removed his hat. “Matthew Stryker, sir,” he said, coming almost to attention.

  “Buenas dias, Señor,” the youngster said. His blue tunic showed none of the fading of the corporal’s and his trousers were pure white. A new felt sombrero hung from a peg on one of the wooden posts holding up the adobe walls.

  Then he spoke in English. “It is unusual, sir, to have an Americano visit our presidio. Sometimes Apaches raid nearby, but not Americanos. What news do you bring, Señor . . . Stryker.”

  Stryker used the blue bandana to wipe at his teary eye. “I don’t believe I caught your name, sir,” he said.

  The young officer clicked his heels and made a stiff bow. “Capo Juan Innocente de Gutierrez y Zapata. Pleased, I’m sure.”

  “Captain Gutierrez, I think my news is important. An American in Nogales has formed a militia to invade Mexico and take away all land north of the 19th parallel and make it part of Arizona. They plan to attack Altar.”

  “Some little troop of civilian soldiers come? They cannot overrun our presidio.” The captain’s voice did not sound as confident as his words.

  “With all due respect, sir, the walls of your presidio could be kicked down by a good Missouri mule.” Stryker caught himself. “Still, perhaps I should speak with your comandante. Is that possible?”

  “I am in charge,” Captain Gutierrez said.

  “Yes. I know you are officer of the day,” Stryker said, “but I should speak to the comandante about how to stop the gringo militia.”

  The captain’s eyebrows raised in a question mark. “Why would one gringo wish to stop another?” he said.

  “The comandante,” Stryker said.

  Gutierrez shrugged. “I fear he cannot be aroused,” he said. “This is a lonely outpost. The comandante is far from his lovely wife and two sons. He finds some . . . what do you say . . . some solace in a bottle of brandy and sometimes a village girl.”

  “The most senior officer to the comandante, then?”

  “I am he.”

  And how many men . . . Rurales . . . are here?”

  “We are waiting for new troops from Mexico City,” Gutierrez said.

  “How many men, Captain?”

  Gutierrez stared at the floor. “Two small companies,” he said, “which are not full strength.”

  “How many fighting men?”

  “Thirty-six, as there are some in the sick bay, I believe you say.”

  “Horses?”

  “A few. Not enough.”

  Stryker used his bandana again. “We need to turn the militia back. I have mustered some allies, Captain. How many Rurales can fight?”

  “If they attack the presidio, all.”

  “Captain, they must be turned back or destroyed in one engagement. How many men can you ride out of the presidio with?”

  “Altar is a peaceful place. The Pima live here so there is no need to raid. The Apaches have not come for several years, though sometimes they attack outlying ranchos. We have not many veteran Rurales here.”

  “How many? And will you ride with me and my companions? If the strategy is right, there may be no reason for any of your men to die.”

  Captain Gutierrez did not answer. He shifted his feet, looked out the tiny window, folded his arms across his chest, chewed his lips, but did not answer.

  “Must we wake your comandante, then?” Stryker said. “Should we wake him?”

  Arms folded and chin against his breast, Gutierrez remained silent.

  Stryker clapped his Stetson back on his head and turned to leave.

  “Fifteen,” Gutierrez said. “I can only command my own company. Fifteen men and myself.”

  “Good,” Stryker said. “I will wait with my companions in the plaza. You will not regret your decision, Captain, I promise.”

  “I find I must trust a gringo,” Gutierrez said with a tiny smile. “My company will be at the plaza before midday.”

  “You might want to have provisions for a week, Captain. I don’t think it will take that long, but just in case. And we will build no cooking fires.”

  “Bien,” Gutierrez said. “Until later.” He stepped past Stryker and opened the door. “Gracias. Hasta la vista, Señor.”

  Stryker stuck out his hand and the captain shook it. “You’re a good officer,” he said. “Bring plenty of ammunition when you come, though I hope we will not have to use very much. It is best to be prepared.”

  “I will see to it,” Gutierrez said.

  By the time Stryker unwrapped the zebra’s reins and climbed aboard, Gutierrez was shouting for his company of Rurales, and men ran from their quarters along the wall to line up in formation. Not a lot of men. And not many who looked like veteran campaigners. But they’d do for what Stryker and Sparrow planned. He rode the zebra out of the open gates and Sid Lyle pulled up alongside.

  “They coming?”

  “Yeah,” Stryker said. “Not many, and not seasoned, but they’re coming. At least that’s what a shave tail Capo said. But he looked like a man of his word. Young, but with honor, as they say in Mexico.”

  In the plaza, Sparrow sat with his back against the low wall that surrounded the communal well. Five other men sat near him.

  “You collecting people?” Stryker said.

  Sparrow lifted his head and squinted up at Stryker. “Ah. Matthew. Yes, perhaps. I spoke to these Pima men of the coming army. They wish to join us.”

  “They’re sleeping on the job,” Stryker said.

  “I also. It is good to sleep when possible. Why not get down from the awful-looking zebra horse and rest, maybe sleep?”

  “I know John Walker,” Stryker said. “As do you. Pima’s are good fighters. Any who wish to join us are welcome.”

  “Might be good to get some chow at the cantina over there,” Lyle said. “Coffee’d be all right, too.” He reined his horse past the Pimas and stopped him at the hitching rail. “Coming?” he called.

  “Yeah,” Stryker said. “Sparrow, the Rurales should show up around noon. I’ll be back out here by then. If your Pima friends want to join up, let them be inconspicuous about it.”

  “Inconspicuous?”

  “Out of sight.”

  Sparrow nodded. “Bien,” he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Mr. Roberts,” Colonel Canby called.

  The designated officer reined his horse around and waited for Canby to ride up. “Sir?” he said.

  “We’ll bivouac in the swale ahead.”

  “More than an hour of daylight left, sir. Shouldn’t we move on for a few miles?”

  “Didn’t you hear me, Roberts? I said bivouac in the swale. See to it. Have the scouts take a good look around, then you set pickets out at least two hundred yards. Picket watches change every four hours. Is that clear?”

  “Sir!” Roberts saluted and rode to the head of the
column again.

  Canby fumed. Twenty miles. He blamed himself. The wagons with provisions and the commandant’s tent held the column back. At this rate, they’d not be able to attack Altar for two more days, maybe three. He whacked his riding crop against the leather of his calf-high boots. Damn.

  Captain Roberts led his company ahead at a fast trot, apparently to reach the swale far enough ahead of the column to have the campsite laid out by the time the remainder of the Nogales Guards arrived. Canby nodded in satisfaction. It was good for an officer to show initiative.

  Men from Company A stood by to assign each incoming company a bivouac area. The place for the wagons was flat and central, and the picket line for horses stretched to the north of the camp. The Gatling guns and their caissons held a central spot. These guns were Canby’s hole card.

  Hal Raven, Cliff Roberts, and Willy Demarest hunkered down by a little fire next to their blankets. Roberts pulled a long-necked bottle from his saddlebags and dumped a dollop of Old Potrero in the coffee cups. He stuffed the bottle back where it came from. He took a gulp of the fiery whiskey. “Just the thing to cut the dust. Now, where’s the gold?”

  There’s ‘sposed to be a mission by the old mine. They say the gold’s buried under the chapel floor,” Demarest said.

  “Where’s the mission?”

  “That’s the problem. Where at’s the mission?” said Raven.

  “From what I hear, it’s on the far side of Altar in the Sonora desert this side of Costa Rica. Godforsaken place. Old tumbled down mission’s all that’s left.” Demarest pulled a well-worn paper from his tunic pocket. “Got the directions right here. Won this here paper in a poker game at Bisbee.”

  “How’d you know if it’s genuine?”

  “Gotta be. The bastard what lost it tried to kill me that night. He wanted it back, but he found out I ain’t all that easy to kill.” Demarest chuckled.