by Alex Frew
‘I hope that was worth it,’ said Scott. ‘What if your plan doesn’t work?’
‘I’m exhausted,’ said Mack as he went to his tent and crawled inside.
‘You shoulda let me fight,’ growled Yancey.
‘To answer you all in order,’ said Hawk, ‘Scott, if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. Mack is right, we all have to sleep, and as for you, Yancey, if things go the way I think they will you’ll get your chance to fight.’
‘How?’ asked Scott. ‘There’s a lot more of them than there is of us.’ He was direct enough to ask a question that was on all of their minds, because the three riders, Holt, Flynn and Clay all had the same questioning manner.
‘There is a saying from my father’s tribe,’ said Hawk, ‘stealth is wealth. We have done the first part of our task, and now we need more stealth to complete what has to be done – and we all have Winchester rifles and plenty of ammunition.’ The look on his face was such that no one continued questioning him.
‘They took that girl,’ said Flynn, and the look on his face said all they needed to know about what he would do if they harmed her.
‘Let us sleep,’ said Hawk. ‘They won’t harm anybody right now because they’ve go a limited time to get the gold, and they know it, but they’ll be up at dawn to continue – only we’ll be up much earlier.’ They went away to their respective tents and tried to sleep, his expression staying with them as much as his final words.
Chapter Nineteen
Hawk knew something about his men that he had never really discussed with them. They were all great shots with rifles, though not so much with handguns. There was a simple reason for this: in the early days the ranch was apt to being attacked by bandits and hostile Indians, and so were those who worked there. Every single one of the riders had at some point had to lead an attack against another man, or even, working together, a group of men.
When they had come with him on this so-called ‘scouting’ mission, every single one of them had known that this might end in some kind of confrontation. Indeed, if the villagers had been abducted by some band of roaming thugs, there was a good chance that these would have been detected, attacked, and the villagers freed by now. Hawk, too, was no mean exponent of the rifle, and despite his heritage he had defended his own vigorously in the past. As far as he was concerned this was just more of the same.
‘This is what we’re going to do,’ he said when they were awake in the early hours just before dawn. They were all gathered together, eating some cold food and drinking from their canteens. ‘We’re all going to up our positions. You, Logan, are going to get to the far side of the fort. You’ll take up position at the back, Alonzo.’ Clay nodded at this, although he looked a trifle disappointed not to be at the main action. ‘Frank, you and I will do what has to be done from the bluff on either side of the mine. That’s going to be the most dangerous part. Are you up for it?’
‘Sure am,’ said Flynn with an expression on his face that showed he was ready for anything after what he had seen. They had all witnessed the weary, half-starved villagers being led away from the mine after toiling there all day and early evening in hellish conditions. Some had already died getting to the prison, but a lot more would be dead from their backbreaking labour before the gold was all mined – and they had heard the whoops of joy from the bandits when it was discovered.
Yancey sat with them, and Hawk turned and looked at the big man. ‘You made a mistake when you got involved with those two fools,’ he said. ‘Are you prepared to help defend everything that is ours?’
‘Hoha, a giving of mines to you it should be,’ said Yancey, breathing heavily through his broad nose like a bull. ‘Charge them, kill and kill, that’s what it should be.’
Everyone looked a little askance at this; Yancey was the loosest of loose cannons. Speaking of which, Hawk had already had this set up in a strategic position. It was the turn of the two former kidnappers now. They were yawning and looked half-dead, being more used to going to bed at this hour than getting up.
‘I’m going to arm you with guns,’ said Hawk grimly. ‘You’ll do as I ask, and if you don’t – if you run or turn on us – we’ll show you no mercy, for you won’t just be kidnappers anymore, you’ll be traitors.’ The two young men nodded vigorously and would have protested that they were not that bad, but Hawk gave them a withering look and they sank into sleepy silence.
Not one of those present doubted the boldness of what they were about to do, but none were going to back out now. They began to take up their positions. The signal for action would be one loud rifle shot in the air from Hawk, while the result from then onwards would be in the lap of the gods.
As Mack and Scott made their way down towards the tree line that faced the side of the mine, Scott seemed more quiet and brooding than normal.
‘What is it?’ asked Mack. ‘We can do this – don’t shoot anybody, I mean – just get out of here, into the woodlands and away.’
‘He’s right, though,’ said Scott suddenly, ‘we would be guilty of treason against our own country: think about it. ’Sides, I’ve just thought of something you haven’t . . . but you was never that good at working things out. They’ve got gold, not just traces, but actual mined nuggets. We’ll deal with Hawk later – but some or most of that gold is gonna be ours.’
Self-interest was a powerful thing, and Mack brightened at the prospect of easy riches. ‘An’ we don’t even go out there then? We wait until the dust has settled and then go in?’
Scott did not even deign to answer this, and the interminable wait continued as they looked from the tree towards the gaping hole of the White Mine set below the bluff above which Hawk and his men waited.
At last the gates of the fort were opened and the villagers were led out, equipped with their picks and shovels and led by a group of about ten armed men who had fearsome-looking bullet belts across their chests. The guards carried various kinds of rifle, including the very type that was going to be used against them. Some of the prisoners carried backpacks, probably containing enough food and water to last them for the day. It was a pitiful sight, because the villagers were still wearing the clothes in which they had been abducted, and these were wearing badly and were dusty, torn and sweat-stained. The guards and the villagers toiled up the hill that led towards the entrance of the mine. The villagers were forced inside first, some of them carrying the oil lamps that were their only means of illumination in the hell inside.
Ten guards did not seem a lot from the garrison, but some of the bandits were out gathering food in the forest, some were sleeping and others had been assigned to guard the prison, while yet more were cooking food, looking after the horses, and preparing for the prisoner’s return.
The only two prisoners who looked fairly well were Scott and Abbey. They walked side by side and they both had bruises on their faces and probably on other places that could not be seen. It was obvious that there had been some sort of altercation involving the pair of them after they had been taken prisoner. Scott felt his heart leap in his chest at the sight of his cousin: when the shooting began he would have his chance to fell someone he had been brought up to hate, someone who had been handed the privileges his poor cousin had never been able to enjoy. One stray bullet, that was all it would take, and no one would ever know the act was deliberate.
His train of thought was interrupted when there was a noise that broke the air that had only previously echoed to the marching footsteps of the prisoners and their guards: it was the sound of a rifle being fired up in the air.
Now that the sound had rung out, it might have been expected that whoever was attacking would fire at the guards. This was not the case, for it had been a signal for a series of shots to crack through the air of the hills towards Camp Brazos. The first two targets taken out were the guards in the tower – they had been handled from either side, with one of the guards screaming as he staggered backwards, a hole in his chest as he plummeted to the ground, but he was dead bef
ore he landed.
The other shots from the concealed men, triggered by the one Hawk had fired from the bluff, were aimed at the barrels of gunpowder that were concealed at the side of the building. Rivero had not inaugurated a foot patrol for the simple reason that he needed his men for either hunting or shepherding the prisoners, and luckily for Hawk and his companions the concealment had worked. There was a rumbling sound as each barrel was hit by the superb marksmanship of the riders, and the gunpowder, rich in chemicals, reacted to the glowing heat from the bullets by giving forth an explosion out of all proportions to the size of the kegs used. There was a kind of chain reaction, too, with one explosion interacting with another so that there was a wall of fire on either side of the building. The walls were made of brick and adobe like many of the buildings in the area, and might have been able to withstand one hit, but since these were all together they combined into a force that was too much to withstand. As in the battle of Jericho, the walls came crumbling down.
Up on the bluff, Hawk dared to look over and saw the blossoming flames and the falling stones, but there was no time to dwell on the way his plans had come to fruition. The guards with the prisoners had heard him firing the signal and they ran forwards to the source of the sound, rifles at the ready.
The entrance to the mines was just below where they had first made camp, but the hills were not especially steep and it was possible for men who were fit enough to run up the slope to the side of the mine entrance and reach the area above, which is what the guards were doing.
Ryan and the rest of the prisoners shuffled towards the mines, because their ankles were bound with ropes that allowed them to walk, but with hardly any play for more than one stride at a time. This meant nobody was able to run off, and if they tried to untie their bonds they would get a blow from one of their captors. Now that the guards were distracted, Ryan bent down and quickly freed the ropes from around his legs and those of Abbey.
‘Run for the trees,’ he told her.
‘No, I’m coming with you,’ she said. He did not argue with her but ran after the troops who were set on capturing the bluff. He did not know what they would be able to do, but he was going to stand with his father.
But Hawk had seen what was happening and a handgun came spinning through the air and landed at Ryan’s feet. He picked it up, but he fumbled with the Colt. As he did so one of the guards turned and saw that a former prisoner was armed and aimed his rifle straight at Ryan’s head, while the latter was still fumbling to hold the gun properly, and a little off-balance. It was obvious that Ryan was going to be shot in the head before he could even aim at his enemy.
The guard was a big Mexican with impressive facial hair who had nothing but contempt for the gringos who had stolen his heritage; he brought his weapon to bear and was actually squeezing his finger on the trigger when a shot rang out from the trees to the side of the bluff.
The Mexican gave a grunt like a man who has been thumped on the back and dropped the rifle. He put his hand to his side and felt the wetness where the bullet had entered, looked surprised, and dropped dead as his heart gave way.
Two men about the same age as Ryan ran from the trees as the remaining guards, hearing the shots, realized that they were under fire. Instead of continuing with their forward charge they began to run back down the slopes. But there was a melee as the villagers, seeing what was happening, began to panic, with many trying to run without loosing their bonds and falling down. Two of the guards fell over the prone villagers and were immediately attacked by the others before they could bring their rifles to bear. Another two were brought down by shots from the bluff, because Hawk was standing there like an avenging angel, a set look on his narrow features as he concentrated on killing his enemy while sparing his friends from the village. Two more of the men fell, while one of the remaining guards turned and fired at the man who was destroying their dreams. Hawk gave a groan and vanished from sight, because as is often the case, a lucky shot caught him before he could retreat.
Ryan gave a roar of rage and horror, and surged forward, hefted his gun . . . and this time he did not miss. His bullet took the man who had shot his father just as the so-called soldier turned to face him. The man fell, leaving behind only two men, who saw the way the tide was going and decided to run for the trees, performing the exact opposite action of Scott and Mack who had emerged from the same place. More shots rang out and the two men were felled, dropping their weapons and lying there groaning. Scott ran towards them and kicked the weapons away. He aimed his gun at the back of their heads as they lay there, one wounded in the shoulder and the other in the back.
‘No,’ shouted Abbey, coming forward and hastily picking up one of the rifles that lay beside the moaning soldiers. ‘Don’t do it, don’t kill them, they can’t hurt you anymore! But I can.’ She lifted her rifle and aimed straight at his face. White-faced, Scott blanched at what he saw as his fate, and then he stood very still, a lack of movement that saved his life.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I was stupid, too stupid to see what I was doing.’
‘Come on,’ yelled Mack, ‘don’t you see? They’re coming.’ The others looked down the hills. The remaining troopers were spilling out of the ruined prison. Abbey saw that it was no time to settle personal scores, and she saw that the villagers were still milling around.
‘All of you,’ she yelled, ‘come with me. Get up here to the side of the mine. Don’t try to hide in the trees; they’ll get among them and hunt you down.’ People who had been bewildered and lost did what people do in such circumstances: they followed her up the slope and over the bluff that overhung the very mine in which they had toiled hard for so many hours. Her leadership had not come too soon for any of them because bullets were already flying in their direction and one of the villagers was struck. It was Bert, and he was wounded in the side, but with the help of Aimee and others he managed to stumble up and away from the oncoming troops.
Ryan was already over beside his father. Hawk was wounded, too, and the bullet had taken him in the shoulder. His face was an ashen grey with the pain, with a spreading blossom of red on his tunic as he tried to get to his feet. Ryan ignored what was happening around him as the villagers came over the rising bluff, urged on by Abbey, Scott and Mack. Ryan, with all the strength of his young body, got Hawk to his feet and half-supporting, half-carrying his father, got Hawk to walk away from the open area and back down to where the horses sheltered in amongst the trees.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Hawk as his son grabbed a horse blanket and helped him sit against a tree. Ryan ripped off part of his own shirt and bound the wound tightly. He knew the bullet was probably still in there, but luckily it seemed to have been deflected and had been the result of a ricochet rather than a direct hit, or it would have been much worse at that range. Ryan looked up at the slope that led to the very bluff where the villagers were now pouring in.
‘They’ve had the sense to take the gun belts and weapons off the guards,’ he said, ‘now they’re preparing to defend this area from Rivero . . . Aguste Rivero, the man who financed all this. From the sound of it, I don’t think they have much time.’
‘Rivero? Good,’ said Hawk, ‘I can die happy thinking we struck back; we’ll all die free men, not their prisoners.’
‘You’re not going to die,’ said Ryan, ‘but they are.’ He spoke with a grim certainty he did not feel.
Chapter Twenty
Rivero was in his private chambers when the attack happened. He was with the young girl, Lena, whom he had noticed just the previous day. He had spent the day in delicious anticipation of what he was going to do with the girl, but he was also extremely tired because he had spent days capturing, planning, working, supervising and berating the villagers. He was not just tired, he was exhausted and he had only just held his poise for his men. Besides, the girl had not been in the best of conditions, dusty and dishevelled with her hair a little matted. He had had her taken away to be cleaned up and given some
thing suitable to wear, culled from whatever garments had been brought with them. With the walls finished and the first day of mining completed, he was finally able to do what he wanted and rest. The girl had slept in an antechamber where she had been given blankets and pillows while he had slept in the one proper bed provided within the prison, sinking deep in his own luxury, sleeping like one who was dead. The girl could have come through and smothered him in his sleep if she had known, but she had lain awake most of the time, her face white with fear.
Rested, in charge, with his men bringing him enough gold to finance the biggest of revolutions, Rivero set out to enjoy one of the fruits of his labour: the body of the girl.
He went through to her, the look on his face both patriarchal and lustful at the same time. He was calm and ready for this, the gift of what she had to offer. He had waited a long time for this, but he was a patient man – indeed he had waited years to carry out this conquest of his stolen lands, and better he did this when his body was relaxed and lustful rather than taken as some hasty meal that was consumed when tired and soon forgotten.
The girl was in her own room that had once obviously been an ante-room where the governor of the prison camp would have prepared for the day ahead, and a mirror on the wall had somehow survived the ravages of the years, showing him in his fine robe as he leaned over the straw bed on which the girl was lying. He woke her with a gentle shake. She sat up, knowing that the time had come, that the thing with which she had been going through torture in her own mind was about to happen.
‘Do as I ask,’ he said, ‘and all will go well. It is a little thing, a symbol, and you will flower into womanhood.’ She gasped and pulled away from him, trembling and he pulled her to her feet with strong hands. ‘Am I that bad looking? I promise, if you are compliant and a willing companion, I will give you much of that desire. You are young, pretty . . . you can be at my side. I do not hate all gringos like some of my men; this has all been for a purpose.’ She allowed him to lead her into his bedchamber. She seemed resigned to her fate, and was not even weeping or begging anymore for him to leave her alone, which was a pity in a way because such begging would only have increased his lust.