RED RIVER RUSE
James Reasoner & L. J. Washburn
Red River Ruse
James Reasoner and L.J. Washburn
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 1991 by L.J. Washburn
First printing: M. Evans and Company, Inc.
Second printing: The Book Place 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.
The Book Place [email protected]
For Dominick Abel and Sara Ann Freed
Chapter One
One thing you could say for this part of Texas, Nacho Graves thought as he looked out the window of the swaying, bouncing stagecoach, it had trees. The road was lined with oaks, and the hills that rolled away in the distance were dotted with junipers. Nacho could see where a creek ran with cottonwoods towering along its banks. There was an occasional pecan orchard, too. Most of the trees were losing their leaves now that fall was coming on. The countryside was awash with the browns and golds of the oak leaves as they turned, and the sumacs added their bright red colors.
Yes, Nacho decided, this section of the state was a lot different than where he came from, out in the Pecos River country.
"What are you staring at, Nacho?" Billy Cambridge asked from the seat beside him.
Nacho glanced over at the lawyer. Cambridge wore a dark gray suit that was dusty from traveling, a white shirt and a black string tie, boots and a crisply creased white Stetson. He looked like a respectable, successful attorney, but his eyes still held a hint of those rakehell days when Billy Cambridge had fought Indians and outlaws to help settle Texas. Shoot, it hadn't even really been that long ago, Nacho thought. Less than a decade had passed since Mackenzie's cavalry had defeated Chief Quanah's forces at the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon and broken the back of Indian resistance on the frontier.
"I was just looking at the trees," Nacho told his traveling companion. "There are not so many like that around Pecos."
Cambridge grinned. "That's the truth. Hell, a five-foot mesquite's a pretty good-sized tree out there."
Nacho turned his attention back to the landscape, leaning slightly out of the window to study the winding trail up ahead. He frowned as he saw several men on horseback suddenly ride into the road from the brush along the side.
"I think we got trouble, Billy," he announced, instinct setting off alarms in his brain. His hand went to the butt of the Colt holstered on his hip.
There were three other passengers in the coach, a married couple sitting opposite Nacho and Cambridge and a drummer on the other side of the lawyer. At the mention of trouble, the salesman reached down and picked up his sample case, holding it tightly to him. The lady clutched her husband's arm and asked apprehensively, "What is it?"
Cambridge held out his hands in a calming gesture. "Don't worry, ma'am," he assured her, although he began to frown as the stagecoach started to slow. "What's going on, Nacho?"
Nacho leaned out the window again. "Riders blocking the road," he said grimly. "Looks like a hold-up."
That brought a gasp from the woman, and her husband's eyes widened. Fear made both of them turn pale. They were well-dressed and looked like Easterners. They had boarded the coach in Fort Worth, and since they hadn't been very sociable, Nacho and Cambridge hadn't found out much about them. The drummer was a typical specimen, portly, middle-aged, nose a little red from too much whiskey over the years. He looked almost as scared as the married couple.
Cambridge reached over and put a hand on Nacho's arm. "Take it easy," he hissed as the coach rocked to a stop. "We don't want a bunch of shooting while there's innocent folks around."
Nacho's jaw tightened angrily, but he jerked his head in a nod and took his hand away from his gun. What Billy said made sense, Nacho supposed, but it was hard to be reasonable when there was twenty thousand dollars at stake.
Maybe the bandits wouldn't find the money. It was in one of the valises stored in the stagecoach's rear boot, put there because Cambridge didn't want to be conspicuous about carrying so much cash. Could be the outlaws would just take the express box and the cash and jewelry the passengers had on them.
Nacho sat tensely on the hard wooden seat as he heard a voice outside say harshly, "Don't try anything, mister. Do like we say and nobody'll get hurt. Now trot them passengers out here."
The stagecoach driver leaned over on the box and called, "Looks like we're bein' held up, folks. Sorry, but you'd best step out of the coach."
Nacho and Cambridge exchanged a quick glance, and then Nacho reached for the door handle. He would be the first one out. He twisted the handle, shoved the door back, and stepped down to the dusty road.
There were six men in the gang, he saw, and they were ranged across the trail so that they completely blocked it. Three of them carried shotguns, which they had trained on the coach and driver. Two of the others were holding revolvers. Only the man who was sitting his horse slightly ahead of the others wasn't holding a weapon of some sort. He was leaning forward in the saddle, his hands crossed casually on his saddle horn. All six of the men wore dusters, hats pulled low, and bandannas tied across the lower half of their faces.
Cambridge got out of the coach, followed by the drummer and the married couple, all three of whom seemed to be having trouble making their muscles work properly. The leader of the gang edged his horse forward, studying the passengers. All that Nacho could see of his face was his eyes, but he could read the danger there.
"Any of you pilgrims try anything, we'll shoot you down," the man said. "Believe it. Now, I want your wallets, your watches, and anything else you got that's worth anything." His eyes swung to Nacho. "Not you, Mex. First thing you do is take that gun out, slow and careful-like, and put it on the ground."
Nacho followed the orders silently, trying to suppress the anger he felt burning inside him. It wasn't surprising that the man had mistaken him for a Mexican. After all, that was half of Nacho's heritage and was plainly visible in his dark eyes, his black hair, and the clothes he wore, especially the short charro jacket. He could have just as easily dressed and talked like his British father, but he preferred the vaquero outfit.
Billy Cambridge was carrying a gun, too, but it was a short-barreled .38 Colt Lightning, the holster on his left hip concealed under the tail of his coat. Nacho looked at the lawyer again, and Cambridge gave him a tiny shake of the head. They weren't going to start trouble as long as the robbery didn't get out of hand.
The outlaw rode even closer and reached down to pluck wallets from the trembling hands of the drummer and the other man. He looked at the drummer and asked with a sneer in his voice, "What's in the sample case, mister?"
"K-kitchen utensils," the salesman answered. "Everything the modern woman needs to . . . to make her life easier."
"Well, I reckon you can keep them, ace. We ain't got no use for such." The outlaw extended his hand toward the woman. "I'll take that purse, though, lady, and that necklace and your rings."
The woman looked at her husband, but he just licked his lips nervously and didn't say anything. With a sigh, she handed her bag to the robber and then turned over the jewelry.
"You folks are doin' just fine," the man said, and Nacho thought he was grinning under the mask. He came to Billy Cambridge and went on, "You look well-to-do, mister. Hope you got a fat wallet on you."
"Here," Cambridge said flatly, handing over his wallet.
The outlaw took out the roll of bills and riffled through it. "Not bad. What about a watch? You got a watch?"
"I've got one, but I don't intend to turn it over. Sam Houston gave it to me."
"Old Sam himself, eh?" The outlaw pushed back his duster, slid his Colt ou
t of its holster, and thumbed back the hammer as he lined the barrel on Cambridge's face. "Sorry if it's got some sentimental value, mister, but give it over anyway."
Cambridge sighed, pulled the watch from his pocket, and said. "It never kept time worth a damn." He tossed it to the bandit, who plucked it deftly out of the air with his free hand. The barrel of the gun never wavered until it swung over to cover Nacho.
"Now we come to you, Pancho."
"My name is not Pancho. It is Ignacio Alexander Rodriguez Graves."
"I don't give a damn what kind of mongrel you are. I just want your money."
His face flushed, Nacho took out his wallet and gave it to the man.
"All right," the outlaw said, turning his horse toward the driver. "We want the express box, too."
"Nothin' in it but mail," the jehu grumbled. He was a wiry old-timer who had been driving stagecoaches for years. In the old days, there would have been a shotgun guard on the seat next to him, but now, with the stage lines dying because of the railroads, the only way to get passengers was to sell tickets as cheaply as possible. That meant cutting corners, which included not paying a salary for a guard.
"Toss it down anyway," the outlaw ordered, and the driver complied. One of the other bandits rode forward, dismounted, and opened the unlocked express box. He dumped the bundles of mail out on the ground with a snort of disgust. The leader of the gang shook his head and went on, "Reckon all that leaves is the baggage in the boot." He nodded to two more of his men. "Go through it."
Nacho had to grit his teeth to keep a groan of dismay from escaping. They were going to find the money and steal it, which meant he was going to be an utter failure in the job he had come along to do. He wished he'd never left the ranch near Pecos. He was a range boss, not a damn bodyguard.
The owner of the spread, Edward Nash, was also an attorney and Billy Cambridge's partner in Pecos's leading law practice. When this business of the money had come up, it had been Nash's idea that his foreman, Nacho Graves, go along with Cambridge to make sure that nothing happened to the money on the way to Fort Smith. Texas might not be the wild and woolly place it had been, but those days weren't long past. The Indian troubles were over for the most part, but there were still plenty of outlaws roaming the countryside.
Nacho was looking at six of them right now. He hadn't really expected to run into any trouble like this, despite Edward Nash's concern about his partner carrying twenty thousand dollars across the state. But obviously Nash had been right to be worried. He just hadn't picked the right man to accompany Cambridge, Nacho thought bitterly.
The men who had been picked by the leader to check the baggage opened the boot and began going through the valises and trunks inside the compartment. They sprung the locks on each bag in turn and pawed through the contents, tossing them aside to spill heedlessly when they didn't find anything of value.
With each second that passed, they were coming closer to Billy Cambridge's valise, the one containing one thousand twenty dollar bills. The money was on the bottom of the bag, with a stack of clothes on top of it, but Nacho knew better than to hope the outlaws wouldn't discover the bundles of greenbacks.
He looked again at Cambridge, hoping that the attorney would give him some sort of signal. Cambridge's face was stony and expressionless, however.
Nacho sighed. Billy was right. If they grabbed for their guns, they might manage to down one or two of the outlaws—but then they would be riddled by buckshot and .45 slugs. The money would still be gone, and the other passengers and the driver might be wounded or killed, too. As humiliating as it was, they were going to have to swallow this outrage.
"Son of a bitch!"
The exclamation came from one of the bandits going through the baggage, and Nacho didn't have to look in that direction to know the man had just found the money. The other outlaw at the rear of the stage let out a cackle, and the first man ran forward, brandishing one of the bundles. "Look at this!" he called to the leader. "There's a whole pile of money back there!"
The outlaw chief stiffened in his saddle and reached down to snatch the bills away from the other man. He ran his thumb along the edge of the bundle, then turned a dark scowl on the passengers. "Tryin' to hold out on us, were you? Who's this belong to?"
Cambridge took a deep breath. "I'm carrying it, but it's not mine."
"Damn right it's not," the outlaw snapped. "It's ours now."
"I meant that it doesn't belong to me. I'm an attorney, and the money belongs to a client of mine, an old friend. I handled the sale of his ranch for him when he went to live with his daughter in Arkansas, and now I'm delivering the proceeds of the sale to him. I'd surely hate to lose that cash, mister."
The outlaw bounced the money up and down on his palm for a few seconds, then shoved it inside his duster. "Bring me the rest of it," he ordered his men. Within moments, they had brought the other bundles, and the money had been stowed away inside the leader's coat. He turned his angry gaze back to Cambridge and said, "Reckon I can't blame you for hoping we wouldn't find this loot, Mr. Lawyer. But I don't like being held out on, don't like it one damn bit. You took a chance and lost, and now you got to pay."
He was still holding his pistol in one hand, and suddenly, with no more warning than that, he leaned over and slashed at Cambridge's head with the barrel.
"No!" Nacho acted without thinking. Bad enough that he had allowed the money to be stolen. He was not going to stand by and watch his employer's partner and oldest friend be pistol-whipped. Nacho threw himself forward, banging into Cambridge with his shoulder and shoving the attorney out of the way while at the same time grabbing the outlaw's wrist.
"Get him!" the bandit howled as he felt himself being pulled from the saddle by Nacho's unexpected move.
Nacho's fist crashed into the man's face, knocking the mask askew. Before Nacho could get a good look at his face, though, the outlaw threw a punch of his own. The blow caught Nacho on the jaw and sent him staggering back against the stagecoach. He heard the woman passenger screaming and the other outlaws cursing, but there were no gunshots. The gang couldn't risk firing while he was waltzing around with their boss like this.
Keeping his fingers clamped around the outlaw's wrist so that the man couldn't bring the gun to bear on him, Nacho drove a couple of punches into his midsection. The outlaw shrugged them off and brought his knee up toward Nacho's groin. Pinned against the side of the coach the way he was, Nacho couldn't twist completely out of the way. Pain exploded through him as the knee landed.
He doubled over and lowered his head, then butted the outlaw in the face. Might as well try to turn the pain to his advantage. That thought flashed through his mind. He tried to loop a punch to his opponent's head, but the man blocked it.
A solid left cross jerked Nacho's head to the side. He heard more yelling, caught a glimpse of Billy Cambridge struggling in the grasp of the two outlaws who had found the money. The other three bandits were still covering the rest of the party. Suddenly, a gun butt came down on Cambridge's head, and he sagged in the grip of the men he was fighting.
Nacho cried, "Billy!" when he saw that happen, but he didn't have time for any other reaction. The gang leader hit him again and tore his arm free from Nacho's weakening grasp. Nacho spotted his Colt on the ground several feet away. The only option he had left was a desperate dive for the gun—
He heard the roar of exploding gunpowder, felt something burn across his side like a white-hot poker. Twisting from the impact of the shot, he pitched to the ground. His fingers fell short of the butt of his gun by a good foot, and he couldn't seem to make them move any closer, no matter how badly he wanted to pick up the revolver and blow that smirk off the face of the man who had just shot him. Nacho still couldn't see all of his features, but the bandanna had gotten twisted aside enough to reveal the arrogant grin on the man's lips. That was the last thing Nacho saw for a while.
* * *
Billy Cambridge struggled back to consciousness first, al
though he didn't know it at the time. All he knew was that his head hurt like blazes and that he was stretched out on the ground with the taste of dirt in his mouth.
He lifted his head, groaned, and spat out as much of the grit as he could. The effort made his skull ring like an anvil, but the pain told him he was still alive and he was grateful for that much. His memory was fairly clear. He remembered the fight with the outlaws and he knew that once it had started, he could have easily gotten killed in the fracas—
Nacho. Where was Nacho?
Cambridge blinked his eyes open, got his hands under him, and rolled over. He saw sky and trees and then a worried face with three days' growth of beard peering down at him.
"You all right, mister?" the stagecoach driver asked anxiously.
Cambridge lifted his arm. "Give me a hand," he managed to say. "I've got to sit up."
The jehu grasped Cambridge's wrist and hauled him upright. A fresh series of hammer-blows landed inside the lawyer's head for a few seconds, then gradually subsided. He looked around and saw the drummer and the married couple standing beside the coach, all three of them looking pale and shaken. Cambridge turned his head, searching for Nacho, fear growing inside him.
The ranch foreman was stretched out on the ground several yards away. His jacket was open, and Cambridge saw the splash of red on his white shirt, the blood standing out in awful contrast.
"Oh, hell," Cambridge whispered. Nacho Graves was a good man, one of the best hands to ever ride the West Texas range, but more than that, Cambridge considered him a friend. Quite a few years separated the two men, but that didn't matter. Cambridge had an appreciation for fine old whiskey and high stakes poker, while Nacho was more interested in the señoritas. And that wasn't important, either.
Cambridge stood up and staggered over to Nacho, ignoring the assistance the driver tried to give him. Kneeling next to the younger man, Cambridge put a couple of fingers on Nacho's throat and searched for a pulse. Within a few seconds, he had located a strong, regular beat, and a great sigh of relief came from the lawyer. He looked up at the driver and asked, "What happened?"
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