“Now you’re talking,” said Kent enthusiastically. “The coast and Trident City. Boy, will we have ourselves a time there!”
“Don’t forget we still have to make it there,” Wainwright cautioned in a stern tone. “There’s more than just time and distance involved in what Mr. Sweetwater describes so nonchalantly. I agree that until we get beyond the Barrancas we’re not likely to run into much of anything. After that, the closer we get to Trident City, the greater the chance of running into road agents and scoundrels of every stripe.”
“Just remember, any of those would be a run-in that cuts both ways,” said Tarvel with narrowed eyes. He patted the six-gun holstered on his hip. “We run into them, also means they’ll be running into us.”
“It’s good to be confident, just as long you can back it up when the time comes,” Wainwright reminded him coldly.
Taking advantage of the word choice presented him, Sweetwater spoke up, saying, “And speaking of backing things up, starting tomorrow after daybreak, we’re gonna dangle a man back on drag to keep an eye on our back trail.”
Wainwright frowned. “You really think that’s necessary, after the warning I left?”
“I think it’s a worthwhile precaution,” Sweetwater said. “No harm if it doesn’t pay off. Plenty to be gained if it does.”
Wainwright’s frown turned into a nod. “You’re right. It’s a worthwhile precaution indeed. Go ahead and make that arrangement, then.”
Listening from under the wagon, Lusita idly wondered what warning her husband had left.
CHAPTER 44
On his second afternoon tracking the fugitives, Buckhorn holed up from the worst of the battering sun in the shade of a flat wall notched into the side of a low hill. Before seeing to his own needs, he took care of Sarge, stripping the big gray of his saddle and blanket, watering him from his hat, and giving him some grain before ground-reining him to graze in a fringe of stubborn grass.
After that, aided by a folding shovel taken out of his war bag, which he’d retrieved on his return to the Flying W bunkhouse, Buckhorn increased the depth of the notch and made the wall slightly more slanted to add to the amount of shade it provided. When he spread his bedroll blanket and lay down on it, he found the freshly uncovered dirt underneath to have an added coolness. It only lasted for a little while, but it felt good while it did.
Lying there, propped on one elbow, he ate a hard-boiled egg and half a beef sandwich that he’d gotten from the German sisters’ restaurant back in Wagon Wheel. He washed the fare down with plenty of water before stretching out flat to rest and hopefully catch a few winks of sleep.
The way he had it figured, he’d cut the time gap between him and Wainwright’s bunch by about half. That meant he should be able to come within sight of them by tomorrow afternoon. If he wanted to, that was. Assuming they’d have somebody watching their back trail, he’d have to be careful to make sure that getting them in sight didn’t also make him visible the other way around.
Given the flat, treeless terrain they were traveling across, it was going to be mighty tough to get very close without revealing himself. But the Barranca Mountains would be coming up before long. In those broken peaks and canyons, it would be a different story.
Confident in that thought and finding a surprising amount of comfort in his little notch, Buckhorn soon dozed off.
* * *
By late the following morning, judging from the freshness of the horse droppings and the sharp-edged, uncrumbled indentations of the wagon tracks and hoof prints, Buckhorn knew the fugitives were only a short ways ahead of him.
But a complication had arisen.
A new set of tracks, that of five horsemen coming up from the south, had appeared. They were equally as fresh as those of Wainwright’s bunch, actually a bit more so. Buckhorn could tell where the five horsemen had halted to contemplate the development. He could see that they’d turned and followed the wagon and its outriders, deviating from their original northerly direction. That placed the five new riders between Buckhorn and his quarry.
Buckhorn reined up Sarge in the same spot and did some contemplating of his own. The new pack of horsemen likely meant one of two things—a patrol of Rurales or a gang of bandits. Either would take an interest in strangers passing through the barren, little-traveled region.
While their guise might be different, the result wouldn’t be too dissimilar. Bandits would do what their type of brutal human scavengers always did—rob, rape, kill. Rurales, the notoriously corrupt rural police who patrolled the far-flung and sparsely populated reaches of Mexico’s northern states, had a bad habit of acting pretty much the same.
While Buckhorn cared little about what happened to any of the men he was following, other than he’d rather it was him who settled their hash, he did care very much that Lusita didn’t fall into the hands of those he feared were closing in on her.
Damn.
Not a good turn of events. Not good at all.
Without a clear idea how he was going to play the new cards that he’d been dealt, Buckhorn nevertheless knew an added confrontation lay before him—one on top of the one he’d figured all along to be having with Wainwright and his hired guns. As one who didn’t believe in waiting for inevitable trouble to come to him, he nudged Sarge forward and rode straight toward it.
* * *
The nameless little village rose up off the desert floor as unexpectedly as the new tracks had revealed themselves. A smattering of mud-colored adobe huts clustered haphazardly at the base of a quirky volcanic deposit worn into a wind-rounded lump. Out of that, a spring-fed stream trickled and provided reason for the village’s existence.
Not so unexpected was the fact that the tracks of the wagon and its outriders veered around the village, showing no inclination to stop, not even with the heat of the afternoon starting to build toward its punishing peak. It was clear that Wainwright wanted to avoid leaving any memory of him and his group passing that way.
The five riders coming up behind them showed no such reservation. Buckhorn spotted where the five had once again stopped to palaver briefly before veering away from the wagon tracks and heading into town.
The only question was, did that mean they were abandoning their pursuit of the Wainwright bunch altogether, or were they merely making a temporary stop in the village with the intent of picking up the easily discernible wagon tracks again a little later on?
Buckhorn had a pretty good hunch it was the latter, but the answer was too important to leave it riding on a hunch. He opted for a visit to the village himself, wanting a closer look at the five mystery riders in order to get a better idea what they might be up to.
Considering the meager population of the small cluster of buildings, there would never be a time when its streets were truly busy. The onset of siesta time and the buildup to the afternoon’s peak heat for sure was not that time. The only activity Buckhorn saw outside any of the buildings was three little kids rolling a wobbly hoop down one of the side streets.
The only businesses Buckhorn could make out were a shabby-looking cantina and an even shabbier-looking building that appeared to be a store of some kind. At the far end of the street, near the lumpy mound from which the stream dribbled into a natural stone pool, stood a weary-looking church.
If the stream and pool were the reasons for the village’s existence, Buckhorn wondered, was there a connection to the worship practiced in the church so close by? Religion or water . . . when it came right down to it, he wondered which was more precious to people in a baked-over region like this?
Not surprisingly, the horses of the five riders Buckhorn had followed in were tied at the hitch rail in front of the cantina. He doubted the nags spent much time hitched in front of a church of any kind.
After dismounting and throwing the ends of Sarge’s reins around the sun-battered rail, Buckhorn paused for a minute with one hand resting on the big gray’s shoulder. It was pretty apparent the mismatched saddles and overall ill-kempt look of the five ho
rses didn’t belong to a Rurales patrol, not even a sloppy, undisciplined one.
That meant the men they belonged to were almost certainly bandits. Banditos on the prowl for easy pickings, with no hesitation or remorse should violence be called for. The kind of men you could give no quarter to. It was the kind of treatment they deserved and the kind Buckhorn was willing to provide.
He pulled the saddlebags down from Sarge’s back to carry them inside with him as if they held something valuable that he wanted to keep close at hand. To sell that impression even harder, he took the shotgun that was part of his arsenal—courtesy of Bart Blevins via Leo Sweetwater—and took it in also.
The inside of the cantina, contrasting with its shabby exterior, was clean and tidy, smelling strongly of soap and wood polish. Most of all, its thick adobe walls served as a welcome barrier to the punishing heat outside.
Going immediately into his act, Buckhorn swaggered up to the plank bar, exclaiming in a loud voice, “Whoooee! It’s hotter ’n a branding iron’s kiss out there! But, boy, is it nice in here.” He plopped his saddlebags and shotgun on top of the bar, then addressed the barkeep, a short, round-faced man with shiny black hair parted in the middle and slicked back on either side. “Amigo, you ought to charge admission just for folks to come in here and breathe this nice cool air.”
The barkeep smiled somewhat nervously. “That sounds very good to me, señor, but I’m afraid my customers would not like it so much. I cannot afford to lose too many customers.”
Buckhorn shrugged. “Well, it was just a thought. Guess that’s why I’m not a businessman, eh?”
The five riders were the only other patrons in the cantina. They were strung out down the length of the bar off to Buckhorn’s right. A filthier crew you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere. Ragged apparel, except for some obvious care taken to the guns and shell belts they were heavily adorned with, covered by a fresh layer of sweat and trail dust. Underneath, it was a safe bet, would be a not-so-fresh layer of old grime and dried sweat that gave the pack the overall stench of a garbage heap.
The pack member nearest to Buckhorn, somewhat surprisingly, was an American. He was a sawed-off, homely little mutt, potbellied and bandy-legged, wearing a sombrero whose crown was so high that, if the hat were placed on the ground beside him, it would have stood nearly as tall as he was. It wasn’t bias on Buckhorn’s part to consider the presence of the gringo a bit unusual. It was just that, upon running across a gang of banditos south of the border, it seemed natural to expect they’d be made up of Mexicans.
Perhaps because of what he lacked in height, the individual in question seemed to be carrying around a sizable chip on his shoulder, a trait not uncommon in small men. Hearing the exchange between Buckhorn and the bartender, though no way meant to include him, the weight of the chip caused the fellow to chime in with a snotty remark. “For damn sure you wouldn’t last long in any business with ideas like that,” he snorted.
Turning to his cohorts farther down the bar, he added sarcastically, “You buckos hear that? This hombre over here wearing a chamber pot for a hat is trying to convince Pepe that he keeps it so nice and cool in here he oughta charge admission just for the pleasure of coming in outta the heat.”
Buckhorn gritted his teeth and reminded himself that kind of goading fit smoothly into the reaction he was aiming for when he swaggered in. Ignoring his loud-mouthed neighbor, he rested his elbows on the bar top and said to the round-faced hombre on the other side, “How about your beer? You do charge for that, don’t you?”
“Sí, señor. Of course.”
“And is it nice and cold, the way you’ve got it cool in the rest of your place?”
“Sí, señor,” the barkeep said again. He smiled broadly. “I have the coldest beer in all of northern Mexico. I chill bottles overnight in a special pocket of spring water down by the church, and then bring them here each morning and keep them in a bed of sawdust until I can serve them to thirsty customers like you.”
“Oh, man. Now you’re talking my language and you’ve got me pegged dead to rights,” Buckhorn said. “I’m a thirsty customer sure enough, and for the coldest beer in Mexico my thirst just went up even more. Set me up a couple bottles of those rascals so I can get started. Don’t keep me waiting no longer, pal.”
At which point the Americano interjected himself again. “Whoa there, mister. Don’t get yourself too worked up. You see, I’m afraid Pepe went and forgot all about how the rules change when me and my compadres are in town.”
“Change how?” Buckhorn wanted to know.
The barkeep’s face took on a bewildered expression as if he was wondering the same thing.
Grinning, the runt glanced over his shoulder, checking to make sure his companions were watching the show he was putting on. Cutting his gaze back to Buckhorn, he said, “It has to do with that cold beer you’re so interested in. Happens that me and the boys like cold beer, too. A lot.”
Buckhorn gestured to the shot glasses and tequila bottles scattered across the bar in front of the men. “Kinda funny that not a single one of you has a beer ordered up.”
“We just ain’t got around to it yet,” the runt explained. “We like to warm up on tequila before switching over to beer. Then watch us go to town!”
The men behind the runt were peeking over and around him, chuckling and enjoying the way he was stringing along the stranger.
Yeah, they were teasing and chuckling, but their mood could change in the blink of an eye, Buckhorn knew, and they’d still be chuckling while they cut a victim’s throat.
“Well, to each his own, I guess,” Buckhorn said. “Me, I like to go straight to the suds. If Pepe here will set me up a tall, foamy one, that’s what I’ll—”
“That’s the problem. You don’t understand.” The runt’s taunting smile widened. “You must be what people back home used to call thickheaded.”
Buckhorn narrowed his eyes. “Reckon I’m as quick on the uptake as the next fella, bub. If you’ll quit stammering around the edges and get to the damn point, I’ll try to keep up. Then maybe I can have me a beer in peace.”
“That is the point. That’s what I’m trying to explain.” The runt made a gesture with both hands. “The rule when me and my compadres are in town is that nobody else gets served cold beer so as to avoid the risk of running out. You remember that now, don’t you, Pepe?”
The barkeep continued to look bewildered and a trace of fear was added to his expression. He managed a weak nod of agreement.
Motioning for Buckhorn to lean a little closer, the runt added in a hushed tone, “You see, some of my friends get real annoyed and unpleasant when they run out of cold beer. Pity any poor unsuspecting fool who happens to drink the last cold one when my friends are still in the mood for another. That’s why, for the sake of life and limb and not having Pepe’s joint smashed to splinters over such a misunderstanding, we had to put the rule in place.”
“The rule.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The one that says nobody else can have a cold beer while you fellas are in town?”
“That’s right.”
“What if”—Buckhorn smiled pleasantly—“I was to tell you that I think your rule stinks? And then, what if I was to grab Pepe like this”—his left hand streaked out and his fist clamped the front of Pepe’s shirt just under his chin, yanking it hard—“and threaten to shake him until his bones rattled apart or until he fetched me a bottle of damned beer!? What then?”
“In that case, you thickheaded fool,” the runt snarled, all trace of a smile, even a taunting one, disappearing, “no amount of beer in all of Mexico would do you any good. Me and my friends would ventilate you so full of bullet holes that every ounce would run right back out!”
Buckhorn bared his teeth in a snarl that put the runt’s to shame. “The choice is up to you, then. Change your stupid rule . . . or commence ventilating!”
The scene seemed frozen with ragged tension for a long minute. Then everyone
burst into motion all at once.
The men behind the runt began to fan out in a sloppily executed maneuver, throwing back their serapes and clawing frantically for the revolvers holstered on their hips. Some of them got their feet tangled together in the process.
Buckhorn, in the meantime, released his hold on the barkeep and flung the round-faced little man away with his right hand, sending him staggering and then toppling to the floor. Buckhorn’s left hand dropped immediately and closed over the shotgun lying atop the saddlebags on the bar.
When he first went inside, he had flopped them down with apparent haphazardness. In truth, he had placed them in a very purposeful way. The double barrels of the gut-shredder were pointed toward the center of the banditos lining the bar and angled slightly upward by the way they lay across the saddlebags.
Without needing to raise the weapon or take further aim in such close quarters, he merely slipped his thumb through the trigger guard, squeezed, and discharged the twin twelve-gauge loads. The fact the blaster happened to be laying on its side made no difference at all to the release of destructive, life-taking hellfire.
Standing nearest, the runt took the first and worst of it. Half of his head disappeared in a scarlet mist of gore, skull fragments, and one wildly spinning eyeball. The diminutive body simply collapsed like a pile of empty clothes.
As the blast pattern carried down the length of the bar, it raked a spray of splinters and pulverized glass off the plank top. At a slightly higher level, it also slammed hard into two more banditos who hadn’t managed to successfully shove away. One of them was driven straight back, taking a full hit to the chest and lower part of his face. The other took a more glancing blow and was sent whirling around and staggering toward the middle of the room.
While these bodies were still flailing and falling, Buckhorn took a step away from the bar, planted his feet wide, and brought his Colt out in a blur of speed. The remaining two men, who’d succeeded in spreading away from the bar, still didn’t have their own guns drawn completely. Both weapons were on the rise but not yet clear of leather. Neither ever got any closer to being yanked free.
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