Revenge Riders

by Alex Frew

  ‘I’m going back to the ranch,’ he said. ‘You can come with me.’ His men looked at him in a way that he had never seen before, an expression of disbelief.

  ‘But you have to get on the trail after these here miscreants,’ said Flynn, not a man to mince his words. ‘They’ve got your boy, after all.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Holt. ‘It’s obvious that they’re a powerful bunch, but we can’t let them get away with this; we’ll get a posse together, made up of the local riders and get after them.’

  ‘I’m in, too,’ added Clay. ‘There was a girl down in the village, Lena, she was kinda sweet on me . . . That’s her paw lying over there. I guess I know what I have to do.’

  ‘The three of you should come with me,’ said Hawk. ‘I am looking in the true way for my son.’ He looked expectantly at their faces and saw some signs of rebellion. ‘Very well, if that is the way then I’ll do this on my own. It’s a pity after all we meant together. You were good workers and you will hunt down these bandits well.’ He was soon on his gelding and riding away from them with no further explanation, not the kind of man to beg or demand.

  It wasn’t long before he was over the wide slope of land and through the trees before the plains opened in front of him. He was filled with a sorrow that he could not put into words, as if a stone had been placed in the middle of his body and was weighing him down. He could not put into words the depths of his feelings.

  He was alone now. Being alone did not trouble him that much – it was the condition that he had known since birth – but he was already missing the companionship of the woman who had walked with him through his adult life. She would have known what to do about their son, and she would have discussed the idea he had in his head about what had been done to him. There was a grim, fixed look about him. He had never been the kind of man who smiled easily, and now there was an expression on his face that promised a hard fight for those who had taken his son. He had not told his ideas to the men in the village because the enormity of what had happened there had made his own concerns fade into the background, but it was his own problems that he had to solve, with or without the help of anyone else. Besides, he had ideas that those in Hatton Falls might have . . . not mocked, because no one would mock a grieving man, but would certainly consider fanciful given what had happened.

  Then he heard the sound of horses behind him. This was bandit country and he was on a rising slope of land that slowed down his steed. He halted Swift and dived behind a line of rocks on the plain that were big grey things, taller than a man. He reached into his pockets and pulled out his guns, ready to take on whomever was riding after him. Three riders appeared, but they were his own men. They drew up their steeds as he stepped out from behind the rocks.

  ‘What the hell?’ he asked.

  Clay was the first one to speak. ‘When you rode off like that we started to get worried about what you might do. We was all set to ride after the bandits and them villagers, but we kind of got to talking amongst ourselves and thought we’d best stick with you and whatever fool notions you might of got in your head.’

  He got on his horse and they rode back towards the ranch. When they arrived, the owner looked around grimly. No one had been there yet, but in his mind it was only a matter of time.

  ‘I’m going to tell the three of you plainly what I think has happened here,’ said Hawk. ‘My son’s been kidnapped. Whoever did this was out for personal gain.’

  ‘But what about the bandits, boss?’ asked Holt.

  ‘They took a whole village,’ said Flynn, ‘so they could take your son too.’

  ‘See, that’s the thing,’ said Hawk, ‘if it was just for their purposes they would’ve taken Rye, but I tell you plainly, they would have killed me there and then. The only thing that makes sense is that my boy was kidnapped.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Clay.

  ‘For the most basic reason of all: money,’ answered his employer.

  Chapter Five

  Aguste Rivero was not a man who compromised his vision. He had his men supervise the newly recruited villagers through the passes and trails that led beside the river for a whole day, until he thought they were well away from any potential pursuers. The fact that the village was so remote, a settlement near the Brazos and living off one of its tributaries, was a factor in his favour. It would be late in the morning before any kind of alarm was raised. These people did not have modern communications like the telegraph: this country was too remote for that kind of innovation, and so no one would have been alerted and warned.

  His chief officer, Juan Ramirez, had expressed a strong opinion about what they should have done in the village.

  ‘We should have killed the gringos, shot or stabbed every single one of them, leaving the bodies – a plain show of what we are.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ said Rivero, ‘that would indeed have been a show of strength, but a pointless one.’

  ‘Instead we are now tasked with overseeing these people who are little more than children in their moaning, sobbing and crying and dragging their heels.’ Ramirez held up a short whip. ‘Luckily my men have these. They have been helpful in spurring them on.’

  ‘It is what they deserve,’ said Rivero, ‘and a lot more will suffer a great deal on both sides before we win our republic.’

  Most of the villagers obeyed. When one or the other tried to resist they were given a taste of the whip and that brought them back into line. The formation of the column was a great help in keeping the prisoners subdued. At the back rode about twelve of their captors, meaning that anyone breaking away and running in that direction would soon be trampled on by hoofs. Another fifteen or so of the men rode alongside the prisoners, making sure they kept up a good pace and making sure that the whips came into play when their captives showed signs of flagging. It soon became clear that they were going to halt for the night when the leader brought them down to an inlet beside the mighty Brazos. This was a place where the water had come in to the shore many times over the years and had created a rocky overhang that allowed for some shelter from the elements. It was only springtime and they had already experienced some light rain. There was plenty of room for them all because the inlet was wide and the overhang was huge.

  ‘Take the fittest of the gringos and make sure that they gather plenty of firewood,’ said Rivero. ‘You will have to untie their hands to do this, but if they run off, shoot them in the back and do it quickly; we can’t allow any to escape.’ His men led off ten of the captured men. Luckily the woodlands around had plenty of fallen branches, the legacy of the storm winds of winter. The men, supervised by their captors, soon made a pile of branches that grew taller than two men down by the shore.

  Normally Texas was a state that consisted of huge plains with patches of woodland here and there, but around the river Brazos the woodlands were extensive and deep, with white oaks, beech and pecan trees, pines and many varieties of flowing bushes fighting for space, making the area rich in contrast. There was a reason for this: the river was rich in silt, and every year when the rains were heavy the river Brazos became a monster that burst its banks and spread through the surrounding countryside, enriching the soil and creating the conditions for the woodlands to spread.

  In the meantime the other soldiers had been using their weapons for hunting game – mostly rabbits, turkeys, ducks and quail, and one or two deer. The troops expertly skinned and prepared these, used the branches and twigs and built several fires along the shoreline, cooking the meat on makeshift spits. The troops ate first and the remnants were flung to the prisoners, who fell upon the scraps of meat as if they were at a banquet.

  Once or twice some of the men tried to speak up, but they were silenced immediately by blows from a whip or the butt of a gun.

  The prisoners settled down for the night, most of them huddled together for warmth, while the bandits used their ponchos and horse blankets for that purpose. The worst part of the chill was at three in the morning, and some of t
he prisoners moaned and tried to get more comfort from their fellows. At just about five in the morning the guards were roused, all of them, including some who had nearly fallen asleep during their watch. None of them were in a good mood, either prisoners or their captors, and a few whips were cracked and pain was administered to get them shifted.

  The only problem was that some of the prisoners didn’t get up, and would indeed never rise again, for they had died from the cold. Rivero looked at the bodies: he had slept in a tent that had been especially erected for him, and was fresh and immaculately dressed.

  ‘Throw the bodies into the woods,’ he said. This was done and the half-dozen corpses, including a young boy, were disposed of in a summary manner. The rest were led off, with one woman wailing at the loss of her child. When she was hit with a whip she would not cease wailing, her cries a kind of plaintive tune to the mournful travellers as they shuffled onwards.

  Ryan was young and he was fit, fitter than the men who had captured him. He was also a great deal more intelligent than they were, all of which would mean nothing if he was not able to get free before their return. It was obvious that the girl was not going to be much help so he ignored her for the moment and attempted to get up. This was not particularly easy given that his hands were tied behind his back and they had thrown him to the ground. He managed to turn round and pushed his body along, was able to sit up and, by pushing against the ground with his feet, managed to get upright using one of the clapboard walls.

  The effects of the chloroform had mostly worn off, although he still had a trace of the nausea it had caused and swayed as he stood up, in distinct danger of falling down again. In the corner opposite him, the girl did not appear to be paying any attention to what he was doing, but she pulled away from him when he walked past her. He raised one of his feet and kicked the door. It was not well secured and at the blow the whole building shook as if it was going to fall down around their ears. The girl scuttled away from him on her hands and knees, but he was still ignoring her, concentrating on what had to be done.

  He was out in the open. The shack had been built in the midst of the thick woodland brush that covered the island, but there was a clearing around where they were. One of the trees was an old beech with a knot on the trunk, a rough outgrowth that immediately captured his attention. He went over to this, turned around and sawed away at the ropes. It was a hot day and the sweat was pouring down his face. He thought at first that nothing was happening and for a short while a flood of despair filled his body. What was the point of doing anything? He was trapped on an island with a woman who seemed an imbecile and there was no way of getting to the mainland.

  At last, though, he felt some of the fibres parting and the bonds that held him began to loosen. It was remarkable to him that having his arms free was so liberating, but now when his enemies came back he could hide and ambush them.

  He was going to go off and explore the island when he remembered the girl. She was easy to forget because it was obvious that she did not want to speak to anyone or even make her presence felt. She might be useful if they were going to try and get away from their captivity. He went inside the shack and saw that she was facing the door with her back to the wall. As he entered, wholly free now, she scrambled to her feet. It was obvious that at the first opportunity she would try to scramble past him like a startled deer.

  ‘Look,’ he held up his hands to show that he was weapon free, ‘I don’t know who you are or what they’ve done to you, but we’re here together. I want to help you, and maybe you can help me.’ He noticed that she was looking at his face as he spoke, her eyes wide, but still ready to run. ‘Have they hurt you? What have they done to you? I want to help, I really do.’ Then he stopped talking as he looked into her frightened face. Then he was aware of how helpless he felt. He had been brought up to be a man, and although he had been friendly with a girl in the village, the only woman he had known well was his mother. Like his father, she had told him that a true man never offered violence towards a woman. He was eighteen years old and in some ways he was as helpless as she was. His eyes fell from her face and he looked at the ground.

  ‘I guess that I can’t do much for you. If you want to see what we can do, then come with me and we’ll beat ’em.’ There was no answer, so he turned and left her alone and walked out of the door. He did not know when his kidnappers were going to return but he would have to look around and make his plans before they did return. Then he heard a footfall behind him and a soft voice.

  ‘Wait,’ said the girl.

  Chapter Six

  When the riders came to the ranch they found out that a note had been pinned to the main door. Hawk spotted it at once. It was scrawled on the back of an old grocery bill and the message was brief and chilling. The other men crowded around Hawk and looked at the words with gathering anger:

  We hav yore boy. Bring a ransom of fifteen hundred to three forks trail at six the day or else he gets it dont try any tricks or his throt is cut.

  Hawk looked at the piece paper with a cold fury on his face as if it was the men who had abducted his son. It was an expression that showed he was not about to give them what they wanted without some kind of fight.

  ‘This is someone who knows me and knows the area,’ he said. ‘This isn’t just some kind of chance kidnap by a bunch of Mexicans.’

  ‘Mighty risky of them to come right up to your door,’ said Holt.

  ‘Not really, they would have guessed that we would be out looking for them. It was when we were down in the village; it struck me that whoever had committed the mass abduction would not have come to one specific ranch to kidnap one person. They – the bandits I mean – were making a statement with what they have done, one that’s political. If they had kidnapped one person it would have been the son of a local politician or a judge.’

  His men looked at him with new respect. In the past their employer had been nicknamed Hawk of the Hills, a semi-mocking name from his habit of going the extra mile or three for his business, and now they could see how the name had come about.

  ‘Well, what are you going to do?’ asked Holt.

  ‘We’re not going to wait around for the meeting with these assholes,’ said Hawk, ‘we’re going to look for them right now. They ain’t all brain, that’s evident from the way they’ve behaved, and they’ve asked for a realistic sum of money knowing that’s just about what I could lay my hands on right away.’

  In a business where the average rider was paid thirty dollars a month, fifteen hundred was a lot of money.

  Hawks said nothing else but led his horse to the stables where he took off the saddle and gave it a quick rub down and some oats and molasses, advising his men to do the same. Looking after your horse was probably the best investment a man could make in these parts and they hastily followed suit. On the way out of the stable he looked around the area, his sharp eyes scanning for signs of who had been there.

  ‘They’ve got horses,’ he said. ‘I can see some distinct hoof marks, and badly shod they are. We’ll get some coffee and fry up a bit of grub, fuel for the time ahead. As for the cattle, well we’ll just have to let ’em go for the moment. This is more urgent, so urgent we have to take our time over it.’

  It was then that they understood the wisdom of the old expression ‘more haste, less speed’. By feeding the horses and his men he was fuelling a search that would lead quickly to the results that he wanted, but he did not lead them into his home, preferring to stay with his men and eat at the bunkhouse. Going into his home right now was too painful, too full of memories, and he had to remain strong right now and do what had to be done.

  After some cornbread and coffee, Hawk sat with his men. His head drooped and he slept for the first time since he had woken from the blow to his head. The others marvelled at the fact that he could do this at all, but it was a talent he had from his early days. He awoke, stood up and stretched his lithe body.

  ‘Guess it’s time we hit the trail and deal wit
h whoever has my boy.’ The words were few, but looking at the cold expression on his face when he said the words, none of the men present would have changed places with the kidnappers.

  In the meantime, Ryan was with the girl on Shrine Island. She was still standing at a distance from him, and they were still wasting time talking, except as far as he was concerned it was time well spend considering the fact that she might very well be able to help him escape from their predicament.

  ‘My name is Abbey Jones,’ said the girl. ‘I grew up in Houston, which is growing all the time. My father was a senator and always away from home. Then when I was nine he died in a coach accident. A couple of years later my mother died as well, of scarlet fever. There was an epidemic at the time. I grew ill, too, and I nearly died, but I recovered and I was sent to live with a rich aunt and uncle in the west of the city.’ She had a soft voice, so that often Ryan had to strain to hear what was being said, but he gave her the courtesy of listening intently to her words.

  ‘When I was growing up I thought the world was a wonderful place. Even when my father died, life was fine, even though I missed him. The trouble was, being a politician, he was always away from home anyway, so I could pretend for a while that he was somewhere else and wasn’t really dead. But when my mother passed on, I was in despair.’

  ‘Did your aunt and uncle look after you well?’ He regretted asking the question as soon as it left his lips. Her face was white beneath the grime.

  ‘How are you going to get us off this island?’ she asked in a faltering voice.

  He was quite a forthright person, a trait he had inherited from his father, but he could sense there was no point pressing her on the matter. ‘I guess what we should do is take in the lie of the land,’ he said. ‘Let’s explore and see what’s in this place.’