Lawless Trail

by Ralph Cotton

  Uh-oh! Garand thought, seeing the sergeant’s face in the pale moonlight.

  Backing his horse away quickly, the sergeant stared in black rage at Dallas Garand. He raised a hand and shouted commands in Spanish to his soldiers too quickly for Garand and his men, even those well learned in the language to understand.

  “The hell is this monkey jabbering about?” DeSpain asked.

  The Mexican soldiers raised their big French rifles to their shoulders and took aim.

  “Oh, hell!” said Garand, able to make out some of what the sergeant had said. “We’ve gone and killed their damn leader here.”

  “Heh-heh-heh,” DeSpain chuckled in a dark tone. “That ain’t nothing. Watch this.”

  “No, Rio!” Garand shouted as DeSpain kicked his horse forward a step toward the angry sergeant. But DeSpain wasn’t to be stopped. Taking a deep breath, he rolled the wad of tobacco over onto his tongue and with all his strength blew it in a straight wet line. The projectile, spittle and all, splattered the sergeant’s horse squarely between its eyes and sent it into a bucking, twisting, whinnying frenzy.

  “Now you’ve done it, you crazy son of a bitch!” Artimus Folliard shouted at Rio DeSpain as the Mexicans’ rifles exploded in the grainy darkness.

  • • •

  Already traveling at a quick pace, Hardaway and the Ranger looked at each other and sped their horses up even faster upon hearing the sudden outburst of gunfire farther up along their trail. As they rode on they saw a flashing blue-white glow standing out on the turn in the trail.

  Hardaway shouted to the Ranger above the roar of the thunder of their horses’ hooves, “I bet that’s Garand introducing his detectives to General Terrero García’s soldiers.”

  The Ranger didn’t answer. But he had a feeling Hardaway was right, judging from the distinct sound of the French-made rifles. He gave Hardaway a nod, the two of them riding hard for a short distance, then drawing their horses down and veering them off the trail as they neared the turn. Around the turn the blue-white light of battle still flashed in the pale grainy light. On the far eastern sky the first thin silver wreath of light mantled the horizon.

  Behind the protection of the massive and deeply creviced boulder standing where the trail curved out and around, the two stopped their horses, and the Ranger handed Hardaway his reins.

  “Whatever you do, Ranger,” Hardaway said, “I hope you don’t get them stirred up and shooting at us.”

  Sam just looked at him.

  “Pay me no mind. I’m just a little nervous, is all,” Hardaway said, a little embarrassed by his comment.

  The Ranger shoved his rifle into its boot. He lifted his big Colt, checked it and slid it back into his holster.

  “I won’t be gone a minute,” he said quietly.

  Hardaway wasn’t sure if the Ranger was speaking to him or the barb as he saw him pat the horse’s withers.

  Sam stood straight up on his saddle and stepped over into the jagged crevice. As if making his way up a crooked ladder, he climbed eighteen feet and pulled himself over onto the boulder’s broken rounded surface. He moved to the front of the large boulder, below which the flashing light and the sound of battle stood strong in the fading night. Flattening onto his belly, he inched closer, careful not to be seen and mistaken for a combatant.

  On the trail below he saw gun muzzles streaking fire back and forth, ricocheting off rock and whirling and zipping in all directions. In the darkness he caught flashing glimpses of dead men and dead horses. On one side he saw the tan uniforms of the federales revealed in quick bursts of flashing gunfire. On the other side he saw glimpses of Garand, his remaining horses and men gathered here and there behind the cover of rock.

  “What a waste,” he murmured to himself, looking back and forth in the streaking gunfire.

  He lay still for a moment longer, realizing the firing had already waned since he and Hardaway first heard it. Below he saw Garand and his remaining men backing away as they fired—preparing to make a fighting run for it.

  He backed away a foot and stood in a crouch, making his way to the crevice in the boulder. By the time he’d climbed down the short distance, he noted the firing had diminished even more.

  “It’s about time you got back,” Hardaway said in a tense whisper. “I was already practicing what to say if you fell off dead from a stray bullet and the soldiers came sniffing around here.”

  “It’s winding down,” the Ranger said, dropping easily into his saddle and taking the reins. In the east the sun had begun to rise over the edge of the earth.

  “Garand’s men and the soldiers, like we figured?” Hardaway asked as the Ranger drew his Winchester back out of its boot.

  “Yep,” said Sam. “Looks like Garand’s posse is ready to pull stakes and hightail it—what’s left of them anyway. The soldiers chewed them up pretty good.”

  “You mean the soldiers have won?” Hardaway asked.

  “If you can call it winning,” the Ranger said. “While they were all killing each other, the Traybos must’ve eased away in the night.” As the Ranger spoke, he took his bandanna from around his neck and tied it to the tip of his rifle barrel. Morning turned from purple darkness to dim silvery dawn.

  “Good for the Traybos,” Hardaway said as they reined their horses and started around the boulder toward the trail. The gunfire had fallen silent by the time they rounded the turn and kept their horses at a walk into a low-looming cloud of gun smoke. The animals chuffed and blew and slung their heads at the biting odor of burnt sulfur and charcoal.

  “Alto! Alto! Quién va allí?” a weak broken voice called out from behind a rock along the side of the trail.

  “Estamos aquí en paz,” Sam called out.

  “Oh, you are here in peace?” the sergeant said in English, in a bitter tone. “I will show you peace!” He stepped in front of Sam and Hardaway holding a pistol cocked at arm’s length. Blood ran down his forehead from a bullet graze. A cloth had been drawn and tied around a wound in his upper arm.

  The Ranger let his rifle barrel level down at him.

  “Con calma, Sergeant,” he said coolly, recognizing the insignia on the man’s uniform. “I’m Arizona Territory Ranger Sam Burrack. We heard the fight. We came to help you and your men.”

  “My men? Ha! My men are dead, as is my capitán. I have two men left, and they are bleeding to death in the dirt.” He wagged the gun toward the side of the trail. “We were chasing desperadoes my capitán had captured. They had escaped from us.”

  “You had captured them?” Sam asked.

  “Sí, my capitán captured them while I was scouting the trail. We met here at the ruins. Do you know of these desperadoes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the Ranger said. “I’m tracking them myself. They robbed a bank and cut out for the border. They hide out here in Mexico.”

  “Ha,” said the sergeant. “Everybody hides out here in Méjico. My poor country is cursed.”

  “Were they carrying sacks of money?” the Ranger asked, watching his eyes closely to check his reply.

  “Sacks of money? No,” said the wounded sergeant. “I saw no sacks of money.” He paused for a second, then said, “I only met the capitán and the soldiers back there at the ruins. They did not mention any money. I know they would have if there was any.” He gave the Ranger a sincere and leveled gaze. “Always I trust my men and my capitán,” he added. He hung his head and shook it in grief. “And now they are all dead,” he ended in a whisper.

  “Except for two,” Sam said. “So let’s not waste time, Sergeant. Let’s get the three of you patched up and over to Espenoza to the doctor there.”

  “Sí, step down, Ranger. You are not my enemy,” he said, uncocking his gun. He swayed in place and wiped his gun hand, gun and all, across his forehead. The air still smelled heavily of burnt powder beneath a waft of brown-gray smoke.

>   “Espenoza? It’s near thirty miles to Espenoza!” said Hardaway.

  Seeing the Ranger step down from his saddle, Hardaway followed suit. He followed alongside him as Sam stepped back to his saddlebags, opened them and reached inside.

  “What about catching the Traybos?” Hardaway asked, looking concerned.

  “They’ll keep,” said Sam. “We need to get the sergeant and his men some help.” He pulled a roll of gauze and cotton ties from inside his saddlebags. “See if you can round up what horses are still alive.”

  “What about the deal between you and me?” Hardaway asked. “What about my reward money waiting in Cottonwood?”

  “We’ll get to it,” said the Ranger. “Right now we’re going to take these soldiers to Espenoza. I’m going to let both Garand and the Traybos cool down some—they’re all too hot to handle right now.”

  “Too hot to handle?” Hardaway just stared at Sam for a moment. Then he hurried alongside him toward the sergeant, who had sunk to the ground and sat clutching his wounded arm.

  PART 3

  Chapter 18

  It was noon when the Ranger and Hardaway escorted the wounded sergeant and his two soldiers onto the dusty empty street running through the heart of Espenoza. The town lay centered on an ancient Spanish mission standing above the narrow shale banks of Río Blanco, where a life-sized Christ hewn from stone stood suffering on an ironwood cross affixed to the church’s steeple.

  The Ranger, Hardaway and Sergeant Malero rode abreast, the sergeant sitting slumped in his saddle, head bowed. Hardaway and the Ranger each led a horse that carried the bodies of the other two soldiers, the mortally wounded men having died less than halfway along the rocky trail.

  As they rode toward the large open front doors of the whitewashed adobe church, an old stoop-shouldered priest and two tight-faced, middle-aged nuns hurried forward to meet them. Stepping down from their saddles, helping Sergeant Malero off the horse and steadying him between them, the Ranger and Hardaway followed the gesturing sweep of the old padre’s arm toward an infirmary beside the church.

  “Bienvenida,” he said, welcoming them, looking the sergeant up and down as the two led him toward the open door of the infirmary. “Is this yet another of the victims from the gun battle at the Sant Felipe ruins?” he asked. Looking back at the bodies as he spoke, he crossed himself quickly as the nuns summoned the assistance of a worker from the churchyard.

  “Yes, it is,” the Ranger said. “There’s been others?” He looked around instinctively.

  “They’re still here?” Hardaway asked.

  “Ah yes, and like yourselves, they too are americanos—lawmen from the railroads. . . .” His words trailed as he looked the Ranger and Hardaway up and down curiously.

  Hardaway and the Ranger looked at each other as they helped the sergeant through the infirmary door and sat him on the edge of a thin straw-filled mattress lying atop a gurney in the middle of the clay-tiled floor.

  “I’m Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack, Padre,” the Ranger said, taking off his sombrero. “This is Fatch Hardaway.” He nodded toward Hardaway, who also took off his dusty hat and smoothed back his hair behind his right ear.

  “Hola,” said Hardaway.

  “Where might we find these other víctimas americanas?” the Ranger asked.

  The old priest’s eyes took on a wary look. He raised an arthritic finger in questioning.

  “You do not wish to kill them here?” he asked. “This is a holy place.”

  “We don’t want to kill them at all, Padre,” Sam said. “We only want to talk to them if we can.”

  “Ah, then they are sus amigos?” he asked with a growing look of relief.

  “No, they’re not our friends, Padre,” said the Ranger. “But they are not our enemigos either. We are all riding this lawless trail—all seeking the same men.” He gave Sergeant Malero a questioning look.

  “I should kill them,” said Malero. “Especially the man who spit in my horse’s face, if he is still alive.” He let out a tight breath. “But I won’t,” he added. “They didn’t know who the captain was.” He shrugged his good shoulder. “They only defended themselves against our rifles, as all men will do.”

  “That’s a good way of looking at it,” the Ranger said. “You and them were both after the same men. Things just got out of hand.”

  The priest nodded and looked closer at Sergeant Malero, noting his soiled and blood-splattered uniform.

  “También busca usted a los hombres sin ley, en el rastro sin ley?” he asked, posing his question to Malero in Spanish. He then stepped in and removed the sergeant’s hand from gripping his wounded arm.

  “Yes, Padre,” he replied in English. “I too seek lawless men on this lawless trail.” He added, “We are all of us seeking these same lawless men.”

  The old stoop-shouldered priest looked up from examining the blood-crusted gunshot wound.

  “If you are all seeking the same lawless men, why is it you kill each other in your pursuit?” he asked coolly.

  “I do not know, Padre,” said the sergeant, looking at the Ranger as he replied. “For that answer you must ask this man.”

  The Ranger returned the sergeant’s gaze as he answered the old priest’s question.

  “It’s because we’re all seeking these men for our own reasons,” he said.

  “Ah, and each of you thinks your reason is the most important,” the old priest surmised. He turned his eyes back to Sergeant Malero to hear his personal reason.

  “I am a soldier, Padre,” Malero said. “I am only following my orders.”

  “Ah, I see,” the priest murmured, his knotty fingertips red now from the soldier’s blood. He looked at Hardaway as if to hear his reason.

  Hardaway shrugged and pointed at the Ranger.

  “I’m with him, Padre,” he said, as if shedding himself of any responsibility on the matter.

  The priest looked again at the Ranger.

  “I’m here to enforce the law, Padre,” he said. “These men broke the law. I’m here to bring them to justice.”

  “They break the law in America, and you bring them to justice in Méjico.” He paused, as if considering it.

  “I have authority, given by your government in the Matamoros Agreement—says I’m granted right to pursue felons across the border when they are fleeing a crime.”

  The old priest gave him a doubtful look.

  “Because you are authorized to kill men on both sides of the border does not make you justified in God’s eyes,” he said, approaching the issue from a whole other angle.

  “I never said it does, Padre,” the Ranger replied. “I’m hoping he justifies me himself when that time comes. He’s the one saw it when it happened.”

  “Oh.” The old priest straightened a little. “Then I will say no more on this,” he said with a dismissive brush of his bloody hand. “The three wounded hombres are in the building behind the church. There are beds there where you can rest, since you are not enemigos and you can keep from killing each other.”

  “Gracias, Padre,” the Ranger said. He looked at Sergeant Malero and said, “We’re going on after the Traybos soon as we’ve rested ourselves and our horses. You want to ride with us, you’re welcome.”

  “No, I will remain here until I am well enough to report to my regiment.” He carefully touched the blood-crusted bullet graze atop his head. “It is my new superior’s decision what happens next.”

  “I understand,” the Ranger said, raising his sombrero, setting it back atop his head.

  When the two stepped outside the infirmary door and turned the corner toward the adobe building behind it, Hardaway looked back over his shoulder and shook his head.

  “Did he strike you as being hurt that bad?” he said.

  “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor,” the Ranger said, walking on.


  “His bark fell off awfully quick if you ask me,” he said. “I’d think he’d be all up for getting revenge on the men who killed his soldiers.”

  “Some folks don’t hold grudges like others,” the Ranger said without looking around at him.

  “Yeah, I suppose that’s it,” said Hardaway, but he stared at the Ranger with a curious look until they reached the open door of the rear building and walked inside.

  Seeing the Ranger, Dallas Garand stood up with his rifle in both hands. His hat had been split a third of the way up its crown to accommodate his thickly bandaged head. His left eye had turned purple and swollen shut. His face was otherwise pale and haggard; his right eye was bloodshot and looked a little unfocused.

  “Easy, men,” he said sidelong to Folliard, DeSpain and Prew, who also stood holding their rifles, Prew leaning on his to take pressure off his bandaged foot. “Ranger,” he said, “if you saw what happened along the trail and came here to gloat, I’ve got lots of good men lying dead back there.”

  “I wouldn’t gloat about that, Garand,” Sam said.

  “What are you doing here?” DeSpain cut in. He eased down under a cold stare from Garand.

  “I’ll ask you that same question,” Garand said. “I hope you didn’t come here bringing wounded soldiers. If you did, they can still be killed, church house or no.”

  “We brought two of them here,” Sam said. “They both died on the way.” He nodded toward the window.

  Garand let his hands relax around his rifle stock.

  “Well . . . I suppose it’s over anyway with the soldiers,” he said. “We lost some good men, but by Godfrey, we showed that bunch.”

  “Showed them what?” Hardaway asked.

  Garand gave him a dirty look; then he turned his swollen and bloodshot eyes back to the Ranger.

  “It never would have happened if they had come upon us showing some respect.”

  “Really?” The Ranger gave him a skeptical look.