“Ain’t any need in that. Me and that Apache need to catch the next train west, so we’ll see you again some-time.”
“Yes, and I imagine you’ll be glad to see home.”
“I will,” Burt said, and left the man’s office.
An hour later, Burt and his scout were seated in the Southern Pacific’s West Coast Express. The conductor told them when he checked their passes that they’d be in Tucson by noon the next day.
“Pretty damn fast,” One-Eye said, and they both laughed.
When the train left the hill country, Burt scanned the short brush and grass desert. Deuces had a long trip to make on foot or horseback across that country.
The issue of Deuces was still far from over, Burt felt certain; the elusive Apache would be a thorn in his side for a long time.
“Señor Green! Señor Green!” Burt turned and saw the short, attractive Mexican woman running down the street. He set down his suitcase and frowned at One Eye.What could she want with him?
“I am Juanita’s sister—” Out of breath, she dropped her head.
“Is there something wrong?”
She still tried to regain her air and patted him on the arm to wait. “Pedro was shot, and he is at the ranch. There are some good men—out there—ow helping him. But they say that Torres is making raids every night.” She covered her mouth, coughing hard.
“Gracias. I’m headed for the ranch right now.”
She bobbed her head and coughed some more. Then, fanning her face with her hand, she recovered her voice. “Pedro is still very weak, but he is so hardheaded. I am so glad you are back.”
“So’re we,” Burt said, and smiled at her.
“I better go with you,” One-Eye said to him.
“Ain’t posse work,” Burt warned him.
“Hey, I never saw your ranch. Besides, we been sitting around for a long time.”
“That’s right. You’ll have to meet my wife.”
“Good. Let’s get the buckboard.”
Pasco’s livery quickly hitched up the team. In twenty minutes, they were on the seat and headed north. Burt pushed the horses hard, anxious to be with his wife and home again. They drew near the ranch, and a feeling of excitement rushed through Burt’s whole body.
The thrill of expectation drove every weary muscle in his body away. He whipped the team to short-lope them the last quarter-mile. Burt could hardly wait to hug his bride.
Several men around the porch were waving their sombreros as they rode up. Then she appeared and raced to the gate, standing with arms wide open for him. He bounded off the seat and flew into her embrace.
“Oh, Burt, you’re back and safe.” She snuggled against him as if she couldn’t get close enough to him.
“I’m fine. I saw Juanita’s sister in Tucson. She said Pedro was shot.”
“I’m better now,” the man said from the porch, but his blanched face told another story.
“We were going to raid Torres’s camp tonight,” Pedro said. “Romano thinks they will be asleep and we can take them.”
“Someone go saddle us two fresh horses,” Burt said, and his wife’s disappointed look did not escape his vision. “I need to go and help them,” he said to her.
She nodded but still looked downcast over the matter.
One of the guards went off with One-Eye to saddle some ranch horses for the ride.
Romano stepped in and told him about the banditos’ camp and its location. Burt led them all inside the house while Angela went to get him some food.
Between bites, they discussed how they would need to come in from various sides and take the bandits in their sleep. Men were assigned to take charge of the horses and to be certain that no bandit could get on one and escape.
The homemade food melted in his mouth, and he hugged her around the waist when she came in range.
“You mean the food in Texas wasn’t this good?” she teased him.
His “No” drew laughter from the men.
“Pedro, tell me about who shot you,” Burt asked
Seated at the table, Pedro shook his head. “Some back shooter hired by Torres, I guess.”
“And all of his amigos rushed out here to guard the ranch,” Angela said with a large smile.
“I’m grateful,” Burt said to them.
“These men with Torres are no good,” Romano spoke up. “They are not only bandits, but they rape children and kidnap young women. They think they are invincible.”
“Tonight, let’s hope we can teach them a lesson,” Burt said. “Maybe some time in Yuma prison might improve their outlook.”
“Yes.” They all raised their cups.
When the half moon rose over Mount Lemon and the Catalinas, they mounted their horses under the starlight and in small groups rode west through the tall saguaros and around the vast beds of prickly pear and cholla for the raid on Torres’s camp.
A coyote threw its head back and yipped out of its narrow muzzle at the lunar appearance. Then another answered, and more joined in. Despite the lack of sleep and the long train ride on the hard bench seat, Burt felt relaxed to be back in his own saddle and on a powerfully built, smooth horse with a good running walk to carry him. Angela called the bay horse Bully Boy, but he shortened that to Boy.
Felipe halted his group, and they dismounted in a dry wash under the hill and out of sight. One-Eye stripped down to his loincloth and, armed with a Winchester from the ranch, waved to them and struck out on foot.
Burt watched him move through the silver desert shrubs and up the hillside. Hardly more than a ghost, he soon vanished over the ridge. Felipe went up the hilltop to be the lookout.
Pedro sat on a rock, and Burt felt concerned they couldn’t talk his man out of coming along. He had no business out there in his condition—but because of Pedro’s story of his trip into Mexico and all that they did to him, he couldn’t deny him the opportunity to even the score. Running his tongue along his molars and considering all the eventualities that could happen, Burt decided it would be a real justice for Pedro to find the bulldog who beat him up so badly in Diablo.
A hiss in the night for their signal.Time to mount up and ride. Burt noticed that Pedro refused any assistance getting on his own horse. The riders spread out once they were on top of the rise. Each man rode with his gun drawn. In the distance, the glow of a campfire made a yellow light to center upon.
Burt could see the mass of the horse herd to the north on the flats. He wondered how that crew was doing.
Romano was coming in from the west. He and his two men had the farthest to ride. Then a lighted match flashed.
“Romano is there,” Felipe said in a whisper. Then he struck his and quickly blew it out.
All eyes were to the left, and soon the signal came from Bigota, and the men nodded, drawing closer to the dark camp. No signs of any guards. Then One-Eye appeared, and Burt worried for a second someone might shoot him for a bandit.
“What’s happening?” Burt asked.
“The guards are taken care of. The others are all asleep in their blankets.”
“Thanks,” Burt said, and nodded to Felipe, who had drawn near to listen.
“You see Torres?” Pedro asked.
One-Eye shook his head. “I don’t know him.”
“I hope he’s there.”
The capture of the gang was swift. Aroused at gunpoint, they grumbled and cursed in getting up. Pedro went among them, looking at their faces in the firelight and demanding to know where Torres was.
“Where is he?” he shouted at the wide-eyed youth, and collared him for an answer.
“With some puta in Tucson,” the boy managed to say.
“What is her name?”
“Carla—”
Pedro turned and frowned at Burt. They both nodded, and when the eight prisoners were tied and seated on the ground, the two men talked at the edge of the campfire.
“Could be any Carla,” Pedro said.
Burt agreed.
“But
I am concerned for her life.”
“I understand,” Burt said. “You have enough horses here to bring them in, as well as the stolen ones. Take your time, and deliver them to the sheriff. I’ll ride to Tucson and try to be certain she’s all right.”
“I will go, too,” Romano said.
“No, you all have enough to do.Where’s her casa?”
Pedro explained the street location. Burt was familiar enough with the town’s layout that he knew where her house was.
“You stay here and help them,” he said to One-Eye.
“You sure?”
“Yes. I can handle Torres if he’s there. You help them bring in these outlaws and horses. I’ll have your pay for you when you get to Tucson.”
The Apache nodded, and Burt grasped the saddle horn. In a bound, he was mounted and riding hard for the south. The horse’s endurance would deliver him. The sun was up when he rode into Tucson. Standing in the stirrups, he made the lathered bay trot through the busy streets. When he rounded the last corner, he saw no horse at her door.
He undid the rawhide lacing holding in his Colt and stepped down. The reins dropped, the heavy breathing Boy lowered his head and blew in the dust. Burt stood beside the door and rapped with his pistol.
“Who’s there?” a man’s voice demanded in Spanish.
“Dónde está, Carla?” Burt remained flat against the wall of the building.
Two bullets tore through the wooden door, waist high. Burt turned with his six-gun ready and kicked in the door. A cloud of black smoke came billowing out the doorway. He heard someone at the rear tear through the house and out the open rear entrance. Seeing no one, he burst through the small house to the rear doorway.
Trapped at the backyard gate, a bulldog-faced man whirled and raised the gun in his hand.
Burt’s first shot struck him high in the right shoulder and spun him half around. The second smashed into the side of his face, and the bandit’s revolver went off harmlessly in the ground.
Had this one been alone in the house? Burt climbed onto a chicken coop to see over the adobe fence and survey the alley. No sign of anyone else escaping. From the description, the man on the ground was Pedro’s tormentor and not Torres. Burt also noticed all the blood on the man’s gun hand and sleeve—as if he’d been butchering. Burt punched out the empties, reloaded, then holstered the Colt and went back inside.
A blue haze remained in the interior; walking into the main room, he spotted a bare leg hanging over the edge of the large bed. Standing over her, he could see he had come too late. Someone had slashed her throat. Her beautiful black hair fanned out underneath her pale face—mouth open wide in pain and eyes staring forever at the ceiling, her naked body a rich coffee brown in the room’s dim light.
He tossed a sheet over to cover her. Damn sons-abitches. To kill a defenseless woman was gutless. The bloody-handled knife on the floor belonged to the dead killer in back. Then he went out front to see about his horse.
“Burt Green?” The city marshal was in his thirties, wearing a black suit, and he knew Burt. Mark Vespers asked, “What’s going on here, Marshal?”
“Man’s dead in the backyard. He tried to kill me. Did a mean job on the girl.”
“Aw, damn, going to be one of them days. How did you—I mean?”
“Law business. I thought a bandit named Torres would be here. I about got shot. See the bullet holes? Kicked in the door and took after the guy—then I came back and found her.”
The marshal had lifted the sheet to look and quickly dropped it. “Bad enough, all right.”
Chapter 21
THE SILVERY STARLIGHT BATHED THE UNPAINTED wood siding on the small house. To the east, the great dark hulk of the Chiricahuas hunkered down like a gigantic buffalo bull. Dueces’s moccasins made only a soft scuffle on the raw flooring board crossing the porch. Night insects played a song in the yard. He slipped into the kitchen and drew out his great knife. Smells of cooked bacon, white bread, and little spicy hints tickled his nostrils.
Orienting himself to the kitchen’s layout, he moved to the other room. He knew the woman was alone. Earlier, from where he bellied down under some junipers, he had watched her polygamous husband drive away in the mid-morning. The dust of his departure in the buckboard had put a smile on Deuces’s face. With only the clicking windmill for her to scream to for help, he planned to pleasure himself on her ripe body.
For two days, he watched her from the cover of the pungent juniper clump on the rise above the homestead. He observed her feeding the chickens, milking the brindle cow twice a day, and carrying in split wood to fire her cookstove. A young woman with hair the color of honey in a plain calico dress. Her willowy body appealed to him. He yearned to discover her undressed and to mold her flesh with his hands.Worse yet, his loins ached to drive himself inside her.
From the doorway, he could see where she slept. The bed was in the center of the room. A shaft of milky light from the window shone on her form lying on her side under a flannel sheet. He removed his moccasins and then his shirt. His gunbelt hung over the chair. Her soft breathing filled his ears. Knife in hand, he tiptoed over to her, wearing only his loincloth. Then, like a mountain lion, he leaped upon her, pinning her under his weight and putting the blade in her face.
“Who are you?” she shrieked awake. “No!”
“Your lover,” he whispered, holding her squirming form beneath him.
“No!”
“See this knife.” Her struggling stopped as he waved the blade in front of her face. “You have no choice. Do as I say or die.”
“Can I—”
“No! You either obey me or you die!”
He could feel her whole frame trembling underneath him. Her body’s warmth and faint sweet aromas began to waft up in his nose. With the knife still ready in his hand, he rose to peel the sheet back. Every muscle tensed in his body, he pushed her flat on her back, then swept the bed covers away, settling back on her legs.
“Who—who—are you?”
He set the knife on the stand beside the bed and began to unhook the small buttons down the front of her gown. “They call me Deuces.”
She shook her head.
“Never heard of me?” He wanted to laugh at her. Silly woman, married to a man who went from wife to wife. An Apache with more than one wife lived with all of them in one wickiup.
She would never do to take to Mexico with him, no fire in her eyes. He would know when he again found such a woman. He tried not to think of his lost one, for even to think about the dead could mean bad luck for him. Impatient with the buttons, he ripped her gown open, and she gave a stifled scream. Roughly he spread her legs apart, then pushed aside his breechcloth. He grinned at her growing shock as he slid down on top of her.
Later, when he had finished with her, he dressed, put on his gun belt and the knife. Seated on the floor, he listened to her sobbing into the sheet as he pulled on his Apache boots.
Ready to leave, he went over and jerked her head up by a handful of hair. “Now you are an Apache’s wife. I will come back again and use your body whenever I want to. Put on that sweet-smelling stuff. I like that.
“Don’t tell your husband about this. I could have cut his throat. You want him to die?”
“No,” she blubbered.
“Remember what I have told you.” He shoved her face back down to the mattress. “Cry all you want. You are mine now.”
At the doorway, he stopped and listened to her screaming and thrashing the bed with her legs. “No! No!”
In a slow trot, he headed for the deep wash where he last hid the fine painted horse he had stolen below the border. In a bound, he was in the saddle and riding hard for the Chiricahuas. The Mormon woman would not soon forget him.
Three days later, he abducted a woman picking flowers in a meadow. Her husband had gone off stalking a wild turkey and left her alone. Deuces carried her belly-down over his horse several miles up the creek before he raped and left her.
A
week later, he visited another isolated rancher’s wife who was alone, and afterward he stole two of the best saddle horses from the corral when he left.
Not satisfied with any of the white women he tried, he began to devise a new plan. Get himself an Apache woman from the reservation. He developed a new strategy for his raid up there. With fresh horses picketed along the route, he rode on the reservation. From a camp of pinyon gatherers, he abducted an attractive White Mountain Apache girl and made a wild dash using the fresh horses in relays until he and his new ward were deep in Mexico before the scouts and army patrol could even start after him.
“What is your name?” he asked her as she sulked, seated on a boulder beside the rushing stream. “Maybe I should drown you, then?” he asked when she did not answer him.He squatted down in his boots on the gravel before her.
She shook her head.
“Should I find a name for you?”
“My name is Ruth.”
“Ah, you have no Apache name.”
“I am Ruth.” She used her thumb to jab between the proud breasts under the beaded buckskin blouse.
“I am Deuces.”
“I know who you are.” She refused to look at him.
“Oh, do they speak of me?”
“Yes. They say you are tonto loco .”
“Why?”
“You live like a beast, and you are a taker of women. Why did you not take a white woman? They say they are much afraid of you raping them.”
“You aren’t afraid of me?”
She jumped off the rock, hands on her willowy hips. “No, but you have ruined my reputation.Now the men of my tribe will think I am a puta. They will all say she sleeps with Tonto Loco.”
He shrugged. “I will keep you as my wife, then.”
She drew back her arm to strike at him. He caught her wrist and glared in her face. Enough of her sass. “Prepare our wedding bed.”
“No.”
“Then you wish to be taken like some animal on these rocks?”
She looked at him crossly, then pried his fingers from her arm. “You will wish you had never seen me before.
Where do you want to do this?” Her shoulders underneath the deerskin trembled with rage.
Deuces Wild Page 17