Deuces Wild

by Dusty Richards

  Burt shook his head and grinned. “Don’t mean much, but chances are that the folks lost the spices never put two and two together about an Apache stealing it out from under their noses.”

  “I’ll go to asking, but—” He spit tobacco to the side. “Think it may be a big waste of time.”

  “Maybe,” Burt said, and indicated for the man to go ahead and try.

  Back on his horse, Faucet rode up the road. Burt tied the reins to the front leg of each of their animals to let them graze through the bits while he walked over to see what Dick was doing.

  “Find anything?” he asked the scout, who was squatted on his heels by the rails.

  “Plenty shoe prints.”

  “I sent Faucet up the road to check with the neighbors. Deuces must have stolen the material close by here that turned off those hounds.”

  One-Eye looked to the north, and his head bobbed as if he understood Burt’s ideas. “No one saw him. They would have looked for him to be near these tracks.”

  “I figure he knew that they would go that way. They’re still searching hard up and down the tracks for him.”

  “What’s that country like?” One-Eye motioned to the north.

  “Danged if I know, One-Eye, but if it’s hills and mountains, he might be right where he wants to be.”

  “I can see some small peaks.” The scout wiped his face on his sleeve, then nodded as if in deep thought. “Deuces not dumb.”

  “I think these Texans are learning that.”

  One-Eye grinned and motioned northward, with his copper mouth set in a straight line. “I would go that way, too.”

  Chapter 8

  THE GRAY MARE RODE SMOOTH IN A LOPE THROUGH the dark night. Greta was in the saddle, Deuces on the back. He wanted lots of distance between her home place and where they would light again. Her closeness made his guts roil.

  The hills ahead grew taller in the starlight. Less sign of people, too. The fact that they passed fewer home places made him feel easier. At times, he worried that his mind had grown so infatuated with the notion to possess her ripe body that he forgot his personal mission was to avoid discovery and arrest. He must be more careful from here on.

  Sunup found them in a live oak side canyon, watered by a spring. The gray mare was hobbled and grazing nearby.

  “We can stay here for a while. I must go and find food,” he said to her as she sat numblike on the ground.

  “If you promise not run away, I won’t tie you up.Will you stay here?

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I will gather some dry wood for when you return.”

  “Don’t build a fire—until I return.” He didn’t need a column of smoke to lead those posse men to their camp.

  He felt her blue eyes studying him. The same ones that looked so hard at him the first time he had taken her. But, despite her hard staring, she had become his woman. Many things were unsaid between them, but he felt time would solve all that.

  For a long moment, he wondered if she had only been acting when they made love. He watched her bend over to sweep up some sticks.Would she ride off on the gray once he left her? He chewed on his lower lip. If she did, she did, but it would mean they’d have a lead on where he had been. So far, the posses of men simply rushed about, not seeing his trail. Filled with concern about not tying her up, he started up the draw on foot to see about finding them some food.

  Across a few hills, he found a small herd of unattended goats. He boxed them up and managed to grasp a small kid by a kicking hind leg while the panicked others escaped. He carried the limp carcass back and washed the body cavity in the stream below their spring.

  She came and knelt beside him, looking undecided about her purpose. “It is fat,” she said in approval

  “Yes, it will feed us today. Tomorrow I will look for other game.”

  “Good.” Then her hand touched the handcuff, and her eyes implored him. “I will file this one off while it cooks.”

  “That would be kind of you,” he said, touched by her concern.

  “Will they be able to track the horse?” she asked.

  He shook his head to dismiss her concern. They might miss it, but they would be unable to find it. Before he took the mare from the pasture, he bound its hooves in sacking taken from the shed where he found the saddle and bridle. He’d watched them, all dressed up, drive away for church.He made sure they left no tracks for any posse member to follow until they were miles away.

  The file made a grating sound as she passed it over the cuff, using both hands with a vengeance to saw away at the metal. Like sparkles in a creek, the filings trickled from his wrist with each effort she made across the deepening groove. Seated cross-legged on the ground facing her, he studied her smooth, tanned face. Not as dark a brown as most Apaches, but he liked the shade and how it blended into the snowy white of her cleavage with the dress’s first top buttons undone.

  “Where will you go next?” she asked.

  “In time to my land.”

  “Where is that?” She frowned as if concerned but busied herself at the job of filing on his bracelet.

  “Where the sun sets.”

  “Will you let me go then?”

  He shook his head hard. “You are my woman now.”

  She nodded submissively. “I’m hungry for that goat.”

  “So am I.”

  He would need to make a bow and some arrows. The silent way to hunt would be the best. Plenty of fat deer and loose goats in these hills. To find some steel and make points would be quicker than stone ones; besides, he had not seen any flint deposits, though he felt certain they probably were about. Anyway, iron worked much easier than flint. He watched her lay down the file, take hold of the handcuff, and spring it open.

  He looked in disbelief, first at his freed wrist with the reddened ring on the skin, then at her. Ussen had surely sent this woman to him. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. He threw his arms around her and drew her onto his lap. His forehead pressed to hers, he considered his good fortune.

  “We better eat.” Her breathing quickened at their closeness. “The meat might burn.”

  “Then we can—”

  She nodded obediently.

  At sunup the next morning, they rode deeper into the rugged hill country. Midday, they found an abandoned rock adobe jacal, where he told her they would stay for a while. Acting less crestfallen about her status with the new-found place, she swept the dirt floor with a cedar bough broom and wet it by flinging droplets onto the surface until it was barely damp enough to hold down the dust. He found a hammock, rigged it between two trees in the backyard for them to sleep in, then went to making a bow of red cedar.

  The first one cracked when it was halfway completed. Filled with rage, he beat the broken bow on the ground as if to teach it a lesson. Both hands gripped the shaft, and he flailed up a cloud of dust in his fury.

  “Something wrong?” she asked from the doorway.

  “No, only my own impatience.” He felt embarrassed at his actions.

  She nodded that she understood him and went back to work inside the hovel.

  The job of building a bow, he knew, would not be easy, for he had used a rifle for several years and forgotten many details about bow making that his uncle had taught him. Patience would be the way. So, calmly, he selected another cedar sapling and went to carving it. Darkness set in, and the light was gone when she led him off to their new bed. They undressed to the sounds of the night insects.When they were at last in each other’s arms in the throes of passionate lovemaking, the hammock unceremoniously dumped the two of them out onto the dirt and sharp sticks.

  Seated on his bare butt, he shook his head. “Not a good day. First the bow broke, now the bed.”

  She pulled him to his feet. “We are unharmed. You must be more careful in our swing.”

  “I will. I will.”

  Chapter 9

  FROM THE TOP OF THE HAYSTACK, PEDRO COULD SEE the rider coming. He took the next bunch of alfalfa off Obregó
n’s pitchfork tines and placed it on the center on the stack he was stomping to make tight. The rich, wine-like smell of the curing alfalfa filled his nose. He paused to look hard again at the rider and recognized Guillermo Riaz on the bay horse. Good. Perhaps the man had information for him about Torres.

  “Wait!” he shouted to Obregón, who stood on the wagon rack. “We have company.”

  “Who?” the full-mustached man in his forties asked.

  “Riaz, Guillermo Riaz.”

  Obregón shrugged and set the fork down. He stopped to mop his face on a kerchief.

  Sliding off the stack, Pedro landed on his feet and walked out in the hot sun to greet the rider. Obregón went for a drink. The short rider in his thirties dismounted and nodded. His thin bay horse snorted wearily and dropped its head low.

  “How are you this hot afternoon?” Riaz asked.

  “Fine. You must have information for me,” Pedro said.

  “Yes, the bandit Torres and his gang are in Sonora at a place they call Diablo.”

  Considering the man’s words, Pedro nodded. He was not familiar with the village; there were many small crossroad places in Sonora that he had never heard about.

  “He’s been selling some horses he stole up here. So he will be down there for a week or so.”

  “Is this information old you bring me?”

  Riaz shook his head. “Yesterday, one of his men rode up and told my sister Consuela that Torres said that they would not make another raid up here until the next full moon.”

  “This man who told her?”

  “Fernando Moras.”

  Pedro knew that worthless outfit. Moras would rather steal than work anytime. Pedro decided with this information that he had time to go down there and learn all about Torres; the patrón would be pleased when he returned if he knew all about this bandit’s place. With the outlaws busy selling their stolen horses and the next full moon two weeks away, Obregón and Juan could protect the patrón’s wife while he rode to Sonora and located this bandit’s hideout.

  “How much do I owe you?” he asked the man.

  “Ten pesos you promised me for a good lead.”

  “I will go to the house and get your money.”

  “Gracias.” Riaz smiled as if relieved he had agreed so easily to his price.

  Pedro hurried off for the house as Obregón came over and began to talk to Riaz. The señora would have the money to pay him. Pedro planned to explain to her how the patrón needed this information. In the broiling sun, with the heat reflected in his face, he finally reached the porch and knocked on the door.

  “Come in, Pedro,” she said, and swished into the front room. “Is something wrong?”

  “A man has brought me information about the bandits. I need to pay him for it.”

  “How much?” she asked.

  “Ten pesos.”

  “Good. I’ll go get the money.” She paused and turned back. “Did he know much about them?”

  “Yes, I will tell you when I return. But according to this man, we have no worry about a raid until the moon is full again, señora.”

  “Very good,” she said, and smiled, pleased at his information. In minutes, she returned and gave him the coins to pay his informer.

  He thanked her and went back to pay Riaz. This job working for the marshal would be a good one. Señor Green would be away much of the time and would need a man like himself to handle things. His sandals grew hot as fire as he recrossed the dusty driveway. If only he could pinpoint Torres and the rest of his gang while his boss was gone—his patrón would be pleased. Good—all he must do next is convince the señora that he should go and spy on the bandits in this place called Diablo down in Sonora.

  Before he left the ranch, he promised the patrón’s wife he would only learn all he could about the man, Torres, and then return to the ranch to wait for Marshal Green’s return. Obregón and Juan could guard the ranch; Pedro planned to have all the information about this bandit and his gang by the time his boss returned from Texas. After receiving the señora’s permission, filled with confidence, he kissed his sweet Juanita goodbye and rode off to find his man.

  Three days later, Pedro Astanchez, dressed in white cotton peon clothing and an old straw hat to arouse little attention, entered the Sonora countryside. South of Nogales, a day’s ride, at the run-down village called Diablo, he dismounted his brown mustang before the adobe cantina in the square.

  Siesta time. Pedro looked around, unimpressed with the place. Several men were seated on the ground in the shade of the nearby store’s porch, taking their afternoon nap.They barely glanced up to see him when the village’s cowardly curs barked at his arrival.

  His small horse, Poco, dropped its head, snorted wearily, and blew up a cloud of dust. To its notion, the place deserved the title.

  He pushed his way inside the cantina, shady and cooler inside. A bartender with a full black mustache nodded to him from behind the bar.

  “Amigo, what will you have?”

  “Ah, perhaps a beer.”

  “Ten centavos.”

  “I have the money,” he said to reassure the man. He looked around the empty room at the deserted tables and chairs.

  “The women, you look for them?” The mustached bartender indicated the curtained doorway at the back of the room. “They’re in there asleep. You could go back there and pick one, but they would be very grouchy.”

  “I hate grouchy women,” Pedro said, and indicated that beer would be enough for him.

  “You’re a stranger here?” the short man with the waxed mustache asked, leaning his elbow on the bar as he polished a glass.

  Pedro merely nodded as if the beer interested him more than anything. Somehow he must act like a man who’d lost his way. He raised the mug and toasted the man.

  “To your good health. May you never lose your job and your wife in the same week,” Pedro said in a toast to him.

  “Both?” The man raised his eyebrows, then shook his head in sympathy. “Did she die?”

  “No, worse. She ran off with a gringo.”

  “Oh, that is bad. My name is Alverón, Miguel Alverón.”

  “Mine is Pedro.”

  “Pedro, welcome to Diablo.May your fortune be better here than where you came from.”

  “Is there work around here?”

  “Can you shoot a pistol?”

  “Sí. But I am not what you call a crack shot.”

  Alverón looked around the empty cantina, then gave a toss of his head to the rear door “Come out back.We will see how good you can shoot.”

  Pedro hesitated. He looked at his beer, then at the man, as if undecided if he should do this or not.

  “Aw, amigo, bring your beer along.No need to let it go flat while we target practice, huh?”

  A smile glued on Pedro’s lips, he watched Alverón get out a well-oiled cartridge-model Colt and a box of ammunition. He felt certain that a man who could shoot could get a job with banditos like Torres. Another sip of the lukewarm beer, and he followed the man out into the strong sunlight behind the cantina, with the mug in his left hand.

  Alverón lined up brown bottles on a table at the back of the yard. Then he walked back and nodded to him. “There are the targets. Here is the pistol. How many can you hit?”

  Slowly, Pedro turned the fine handgun over in his hand to examine it. A poor out-of-work vaquero needed to act as if he appreciated such a well-kept weapon. Satisfied the revolver was loaded, he pulled it up, cocked the hammer, fired, and smashed the first bottle. He looked over at the man. They shared a nod.

  Then he shot again and blasted the second one to brown fragments. Alverón smiled slyly. “Shoot the last three pronto.”

  If he shot all three, the man would suspect he was a pistolero. He plinked number three into pieces, took the neck off number four, but let his last bullet plow up wood beside the fifth one.

  “Bet I could get that one the next time,” Pedro said as if disgusted, and took a swig of beer from the m
ug in his left hand.

  “Madre de Dios, you can shoot a pistola like a real expert.”

  To dismiss him, Pedro shrugged. “Now, where is the gallery?”

  “What gallery?” Alverón asked.

  “You want to hire me to run a shooting gallery?”

  “No,” the man said with raised eyebrows. He tucked the revolver into his waistband and threw his arm around Pedro’s shoulders. “Mi amigo, have I got a job for you.”

  “A job for me?”

  “Sí, a man can shoot like that should ride with real men. Tonight, I will introduce you to your new boss.”

  “New boss?” Pedro blinked at him.

  “Sí. Tonight I will introduce you to Alfredo Torres.”

  “Good, I want to meet him.”

  “You will, mi amigo, you will. He’s a muy grande hombre.” Alverón threw his head back and laughed aloud. “Muy grande!”

  Good, Pedro decided, that’s what I rode down here for. The next thing he must do was not to act too excited about any job offer. Back inside the dark and cooler cantina, he wondered what Burt Green and the Apache tracker were doing in Texas about the escaped scout. No telling. But he would like to be there helping them—more than spying on some two-bit bandito.

  He drank two more beers and then went across the street to where a woman cooked food in the open market area. She nodded when he said for her to fix him something to eat. Squatted down on his sandals, he watched her work.

  The iron grill sizzled when she tossed chopped onions on it. The sweet, strong aroma wafted up his nose. Then she added some cut-up hot peppers and, last, some strips of marinated beef or goat. With that on to cook, she began to work out a flour tortilla in her brown hands. The tortilla soon became blanket-size, and she tossed it on her grill.

  He could view the cantina from where he was. Torres was the main thing on his mind. If he joined the bandits, would he ever have the opportunity to leave and go back to the ranch? Things could get plenty risky being a gang member. And he would only be safe as long as Moras was in Tucson—he was the single one in the gang who knew him.