Revenge Riders

by Alex Frew

  His cousin was not the only one who had a taste for revenge.

  Chapter Ten

  The old Camp Brazos was tucked in between the hills, but it was at a higher elevation than the surrounding land and any villages that might be nearby. Those same villages, situated as they were so close to the Mexican border, were mainly inhabited by people of the same race as those who had captured the villagers.

  Things had not changed a great deal since the villagers had been herded into the compound that was to be their home – for how long they did not know. Seventy people had been torn from where they lived and thrust into captivity. As if to underline the point, three guards marched up and down the three sections of the long fence, each one carrying a rife and patrolling their own area. The rifles were rather old and looked as if they might have come from the time of the Civil War, but they had been oiled and looked as if they were functional enough. Not that any of the villagers wanted to test them out.

  The gates opened and the hunting party that had been out that day returned. They brought with them a great many carcasses of animals that they had captured. The animals were piled up at the top of the courtyard, furry prospective meals. Most of the captured were turkeys, rabbits, and quail, quite a few of those, but there were three much larger kills in the form of deer, and even a wild hog with a fierce pair of tusks. It was an undeniable truth that this many people would need to be fed and that would have been the situation in the days when the camp was used for prisoners of war. Besides the animals they had brought back, the foragers had also returned with gunnysacks full of wild plants, such as potatoes, edible green leaves and berries. Somewhere deep in the buildings at the top of the square was a kitchen block where the pile of dead creatures could be turned into something more edible.

  Aguste Rivero was at the scene as his men dropped off the provender and he had a satisfied smile on his face. ‘Raul, Pell, Lucas, Cesar, you have done very well,’ he said, with a happy smile. ‘You others, too; this will feed us all while the camp is being rebuilt.’ Satisfied, his men picked up their kills and took them indoors to where they would be processed.

  Rivero was not finished, though. He waited patiently and there was the rumbling of hoofs and wheels rattling across the uneven ground outside. There had once been a military road that ran down from the camp, but that had partially disintegrated and it was a far from smooth ride to the main yard. No less than three wagons were brought in, ranging from the top to almost the bottom of the courtyard. The wagons were filled to the brim with building materials: stones, sacks of lime and sand, and other materials that could be used for making walls. What is more, it was clear that these could not have been loaded that morning because they held too much in the way of materials – each team of four horses pulling the wagons had been straining at their restraints just to pull them in. Now the animals were standing there panting, the sweat rolling off them.

  ‘Put the wagons into the empty compound,’ ordered Rivero, who seemed a person who liked to be in the middle of the action. His second-in-command, Ramirez, appeared at this point and the two men gave shouted orders until the wagons were safely stored a little way from each other away from the main area, but with their loads still intact. It was a process that was watched with horrified interest by the prisoners at the other side of the camp behind their fence. They instinctively knew that whatever was going on was not great news for them. This was confirmed shortly after Rivero saw the horses being led away to be fed with whatever the stables provided. He strutted up and down the fences and spoke in a clear but not particularly loud voice. However, they were all able to get his message.

  ‘You’ve been here for long enough, you gringos, lazing around and living on my good will. That time is fast coming to an end. You will be coming out shortly and repairing these walls and the side buildings. You will be doing this for a reason: not just our protection, but also yours.’

  ‘You won’t get away with this,’ yelled a man called Lutz from inside the compound. He had been one of the owners of the saloon. ‘They’ll come and get you, you an’ your murderers.’ His voice was hoarse with anger. Bert, who had been standing near him, shuffled away from the protester to a different part of the compound.

  ‘Shut up, you diseased son of a pig whore,’ said Ramirez, a trace of asperity in his tone.

  ‘He has a right to speak,’ said Rivero, more mildly. ‘Come forward to the fence, my friend. You have a point of view: please, come forward, tell me what you think.’ Lutz looked around for support and discovered that, in a sense, he was being encouraged.

  Many of the formerly apathetic villagers were looking at him. He was a big, red-faced man who looked as if he had a habit of imbibing the ale that he had sold in the saloon. He drew strength from the many eyes on him, but Bert, speaking in a low voice, came out with a warning. ‘Don’t do this, Pere. Don’t do it.’

  Lutz ignored this and went over to the fence, feeling the strength of those behind him. He faced Rivero, who was looking faintly amused, and Ramirez, who was looking the exact opposite. Ramirez looked as if he wanted to speak again, but his commander was keeping him silent with a warning look.

  ‘We are free Americans,’ said Lutz. ‘My parents came from Germany when I was a small child. I grew up here, this is my country and these are my people. We have rights, do you understand? Rights. I was dragooned here and in shock. Now the shock has gone and I must stand up for these people.’

  ‘You make the valid points,’ said Rivero. ‘Your protest is noted. Now be quiet and do your work with the rest – you are all going to rebuild what is to be your home for the duration.’

  ‘They will come,’ said Lutz. ‘Don’t you understand? They will come, and when they do, you and your kind will be destroyed.’

  ‘Yes, they will come,’ said Rivero, ‘and that is the reason why you all have to set to work. But who is it that will arrive to rescue you? A group of cowboys, that is who, for that is who is left in that area. Cowboys.’ His companion, Ramirez, gave a laugh at this and spat on the ground, indicating what he at least thought of ranch riders.

  ‘The government will find out about this outrage,’ said Lutz. ‘You will be overturned by the military.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Rivero regretfully, ‘that is what will happen, but by that time we will be strong enough to resist them, and we have our prisoners as a bargaining tool, of course.’

  ‘You’re all going to die!’ screamed Lutz, suddenly losing all self-control and rattling the rusty but still strong bars of the fence.

  ‘Ah, up until now I thought you would be a reasonable man,’ said Rivero. ‘Look at this, all of you! This is what this man has brought on his own head.’ Too late, Lutz realized what he had done, and why he should not have protested. He turned to run away from the leader, but as he did so Rivero took a gun from a beautifully fashioned leather holster, and fired once, but hardly able to miss at such a short range. There was a bang that sounded almost subdued in that open space, and the former saloonkeeper received a wound from the bullet that was immediately fatal. The dead man fell instantly, his corpse lying on the ground, looking up with unseeing eyes.

  This calm act said more to the villagers than any amount of shouting, screaming or expostulating from the rebel leader might have done. Two of the women there began to scream and moan in horror and some of the men shouted in protest at the outrage, quickly quelled by a sharp word from Ramirez.

  ‘Now, get the guards, open the gates and start them working,’ said Rivero to his lieutenant. ‘As for that,’ he pointed to the corpse, ‘feed it to the dogs. We waste nothing.’ Then he marched off back to his headquarters, a busy man who wanted to get things done.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘What’s your name? I know your face from when you were younger,’ Jay asked the young man who stood beside McArthur. ‘I need to know, because the sheriff’ll need to know who he’s hanging.’

  ‘I’m Jardine,’ gabbled the young man, ‘Mack Jardine.’ He lo
oked very young and almost as if he was going to burst into tears. Scott glared at him.

  ‘Shoulda kept that gab of yours sealed,’ he said.

  ‘I say we keep it simple,’ said Clay. ‘Let’s hang ’em here and now to save a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I won’t tell you where he is,’ said McArthur. ‘You’ll never know, and he’ll be dead pretty quickly.’ He looked straight at his uncle when he said this. Hawk managed to restrain the degree of anger that told him he should shoot McArthur straight in the face. Besides, it wasn’t as simple as that: McArthur was family, and Hawk valued his relationships even with those who were supposedly a lost cause. ‘I guess I don’t need to ask you much,’ said Hawk. ‘Yancey, you’re not the most clever of men, and I think you listened to the fairy tales from these two and thought that they were going to make you rich. Well, I can help you here. I’ve got money with me. I’ll give you five hundred dollars if you tell me where my boy’s been imprisoned.’

  ‘Don’t say a word, Yancey,’ said Scott in a sandpaper rough tone. Yancey stood there, frozen by uncertainty. ‘He’s lying; he’ll give you the money, all right, then he’ll turn you over to the law.’

  ‘You’ll turn me in,’ said Yancey hoarsely, ‘but I’ll die first.’

  ‘Right, men, guard those two. I’ll deal with this one. Come on, Yancey, you and me, we’re going for a little walk.’ Hawk brandished his weapon, and now that his rage had somewhat deflated, Yancey – who was as reluctant as anyone to receive a bullet in the head – obeyed. The pair of them walked to the edge of the woodland where the horses were tethered, and Hawk went over to his own animal, reaching into the saddle-bag with one hand while continuing to hold his gun on the large man with the other. Luckily, and he knew this, one of the bundles of notes contained exactly 500 dollars. Being a neat man, as he saved money he tended to bundle it in exact sums. The bundle of notes was held together by twine. ‘I know that they influenced you, Yancey, and you’re really a good guy.’ He threw the bundle of notes to the big man. ‘Here, count these, and take my word for it: if you help me get my boy back, I’ll make sure you keep the money.’ Yancey stared at the bundle of notes in his big hands. It was more money than he had ever seen in his life at a time when even when he was in full employment he would earn about thirty dollars a month. His mouth worked, and for the first time since they had met again, he seemed humbled.

  ‘Your boy means this much to you, don’t he? I can’t take this.’ He looked straight at Hawk. ‘I done wrong, didn’t I, real wrong? Your boy’s on Shrine Island, that’s where he is, along with the girl.’

  ‘Girl, what girl?’

  ‘They had a girl. She was real quiet; never knew her name.’ He handed the money back to Hawk, hanging his head. Hawk took the bundle off him but looked directly at the large man. ‘I’ll keep these dollars, but you’ll get them if you lead me to my boy.’ He lowered his gun. ‘Are we together on this one?’

  There was a strange look in Yancey’s eyes as he looked at Hawk. ‘You’ll do that? You’ll help me?’

  ‘I keep my word,’ said Hawk, ‘and we have to do this now. Who knows what kind of trouble he is in?’ Together they went to the woodland where Clay, Holt and Flynn were patiently guarding their prisoners. ‘Right, men, could you follow me? Bring those two with you.’

  ‘Aw, they’re a pain,’ said Holt. ‘Can’t we just shoot ’em?’

  ‘I told you, no shooting anyone in cold blood,’ said Hawk. ‘Just make sure they don’t escape.’ Together the men walked towards the source of the roaring sound that they could all hear. Hawk knew Shrine Island quite well, given that it was a sacred place to some of his ancestors. The walk to the river was a sombre one. Hawk took the lead with Yancey walking beside him, and he was not holding a gun in sight.

  ‘Club him, Yancey,’ said Scott in a chilling voice. ‘You do that, the three of us has got a chance. . . .’ But Yancey walked on as if he had not heard, keeping pace with Hawk who traversed the rough woodland with practised ease.

  His men were not so sure; they were riders, not walkers, and they often stumbled on tree roots or thick vegetation, which meant that there was a very real danger that their prisoners might take a chance and elude them. However, when Clay stumbled right behind Scott, Hawk heard the hesitation in his employee’s stride and turned back instantly, drawing out his gun and covering Scott until Clay recovered. Scott had played in these woodlands when he was young and he knew how easy it was to get lost in the thick growths around them, and once that happened to him his captors would probably never see him again.

  ‘Someone’s had a fire around here,’ said Hawk almost conversationally. ‘The smoke has drifted through the trees. I hope it’s not Indians. If it is I’ll have to pow-wow with them.’ None of his men had noticed the wood smoke, but they were not attuned to the woodlands the way he was.

  Then they were down at the banks of the river, Hawk’s uncanny sense of place having led him to the exact spot where they would face Shrine Island. It was getting late in the day by then, and the rushing waters that foamed as they travelled around the bend of the river and down the falls were a daunting sight.

  ‘The boat they used is real near,’ said Yancey. ‘Used it to cross the foamy way.’ He led them along to the sandbar, his eyes bulging in his broad face as he looked at the space where the craft had been. ‘Leastways it was here.’ He looked around helplessly like a man who has seen a magic trick and doesn’t know how it was done. Hawk, however, was more astute and examined the sand.

  ‘I can see where the boat has been dragged along and cast off,’ he said, straightening up. He looked directly at his nephew. ‘What do you know about this?’

  However, Scott was staring off into the middle distance. ‘Don’t know, don’t care,’ he said. ‘Just throw me in the river, let me die on the falls, bash my brains out on the rocks below.’ And as he said these words there was a rustle of undergrowth and a fury rushed forward, club in hand, and attacked him, so that it looked as if his wish was about to be granted with wood instead of water.

  When the young man and his companion went back into the woodlands after setting the boat adrift – and watching it sweep away to an inevitable doom – Ryan had taken the girl to one of the many clearings created by fallen trees, and he did not hesitate in what he had to do. He gathered some dry grass, of which there was plenty, struck some stones against metal and was able to create a spark that ignited the grass. Then, with the help of the girl, he fed the resulting flame with dry twigs, and eventually branches, until they had a fair sized fire. He was careful to use a splayed branch like a type of makeshift brush and swept the area around the fire, creating a bare space so that the flames did not spread much further. This was a vital thing to do because they did not want to create a woodland fire. He had seen such things before, caused by careless cowboys, and they were not a pretty sight and one would probably kill them.

  Ryan was a plainsman, but he knew that the woodlands around them were so heavy because they were fed by the rich soil that accumulated around any huge river, and the Brazos brought down a lot of nutrients from the hills that enabled the vegetation to proliferate.

  They had been cold and hardly able to move when they started, but the work and resulting heat of the fire had warmed their limbs and stopped the possibility of the pair dying from hypothermia.

  ‘We’ll stay here for as short a time as possible,’ said Ryan. ‘Who knows when they’ll come back to check on us?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The girl gave a shiver. She was no longer cold, so lack of warmth could not have been the reason. ‘You don’t know what they were like with me, you don’t know.’

  Once more Ryan felt a strange kind of shyness come over him. Despite his leaning towards book learning, he was not wise in the ways of the world. ‘Tell me what they did.’ He waited but no answer came.

  The girl was leaning into the flames and for a moment he thought she was going to put one of her hands in the fire. Then she picked up one of
the branches about as thick as the arm of a man and fed the flames again. She did not answer him and the look on her face warned him not to speak about the subject again.

  ‘Once we’re warmed up we’ll go back to the ranch,’ said Ryan at last. ‘It’s a fair walk, but if we make a good pace we’ll be there within the hour.’

  Then there came the sound that they had dreaded. The woodlands were a place in which man rarely intruded and they could hear the sound of people crashing down what trail there was with all the subtlety of a herd of elephants. The thing was, it sounded like more than before.

  Ryan hastily took up his makeshift brush – the branch with spreading twigs – and hastened to brush bare earth onto the fire to douse any smoke and flames. It had done its job and saved their lives.

  The girl stood up ready for flight like a startled deer.

  Ryan’s expression became grim. ‘If it’s them, we wait in hiding and get them. If we try to flee they might chase after and kill us with their guns; at least this way we’ll be fighting back.’

  The girl said nothing but gave a brief nod of her fair head to show that she was with him in this. They took up branches that had once been destined for the fire but were tapered and easy to hold in the hand and a good approximation of clubs.

  ‘They’re heading for the river,’ she said.