by J. T. Edson
For a long moment Waco did not reply. Then he nodded. “You’ve got my word. But if you don’t get back in four days, let the governor worry, I’m going to get hold of Dusty, Mark, and the Kid and we’re coming down there to make sure Chacon pays.”
“What riles me is them stinking politicians who’d jail you for fetching a murdering rat like Chacon back the only way you could,” Doc went on.
“That’s life’s rich pattern, Doc.” Mosehan grinned and swung into his saddle.
Waco went to where Billy Stiles stood ready to mount his horse. The young man tried, and failed, to meet Waco’s cold stare and began to turn. Out shot Waco’s hand, catching him by the sleeve and spinning him around. Then Waco’s hand bunched in Stiles’s vest, lifting him and thrusting him into the corral fence.
“Listen good to me, Billy,” said Waco, his voice hardly more than a whisper, yet Billy Stiles never forgot it. “Happen you sell out Cap’n Bert, just put your Colt’s nose in your mouth and drop the hammer, then bury yourself, “cause the world won’t be big enough for you to run from me in.”
Doc came forward fast. “Let him go, boy!” he barked. “Do it or so help me I’ll put that bullet in your leg right now.”
Waco shoved Billy Stiles back with a contemptuous gesture and stepped back. Doc looked Stiles over, his cold eyes seeming to burn into the outlaw’s brain and kick at his nerves.
“Like Waco said, Billy,” Doc drawled easily. “Happen you leave Cap’n Bert in bad, just pray the boy gets you afore I do. I know some good ways of making a man die and making it hurt bad. And I can do them so they look like accidents.”
Billy Stiles tried to meet the cold eyes of the two Texans and failed once more. With a snarl that sounded more like the whine of a whipped puppy he turned to swing into the saddle of his horse. Riding after the other two men Stiles felt as if a cold hand kept running along his spine. He felt afraid and not just of the two Texans’ guns. The way they looked at him, those cold unfeeling eyes, put the fear of God into him, for he knew Waco and Doc meant every word they said.
Waco and Doc watched the three men ride toward the ridge that in these parts showed the border with Mexico. Then they turned and walked back into the hut. Waco flung his hat across the room in a gesture of disgust. He began to curse the politicians, doing it fluently and comprehensively.
“Why in hell didn’t Cap’n Bert let us trail him?” he finally asked bitterly.
“Didn’t want us to get in any deeper than we are now,” Doc answered. “He’s risking jail at best, a bullet if the Mexican army sees him, or worse if Chacon gets suspicious and has his bunch around. Then when he gets back, that lousy bunch at Prescott are going to scream for his hide for what he’s done and Sam Strogoff’s Pinkertons’ll jump at a chance to move in and take him-and you.”
“I’d lose sleep worrying over what Pinkertons could do to me,” Waco growled.
“Reckon you would. Cap’n Bert’s a good man, too good for the lousy deal he’s getting.”
“Sure,” Waco agreed. “Happen I’d had choice, he’s the man I’d take for a father.”
So Captain Bertram H. Mosehan rode to the south, rode to break the law and bring in the most dangerous bandido of them all. He knew he went with his life balanced on the thin edge of a real sharp razor. One slip, one hint of anything going wrong would see both Alvord and Stiles desert him at best, throw in with and help Chacon at worst. All that stood between Mosehan and a most unpleasant death was his courage, gun skill, and the greed of Burt Alvord.
About three miles below the border Alvord drew his horse to a halt and lifted a hand to point away into the distance.
“That’s where you’ll find him, Cap’n. Down there camped by a spring either tonight, tomorrow, or the next night, I’m not sure when he’ll make it. Now I’ll head back over the border and meet your man.”
Mosehan shook his head, a cold grin coming to his face. “Pete Glendon won’t make a move until he gets word from me. I told him to wait until I send word that Chacon was over the border before he took you in. Know something, Burt. Happen I don’t make it back, I’d be real unsurprised if Pete and the boys didn’t turn you over to Strogoff and his crowd, despite my orders.”
Alvord snarled out a curse but knew he could not argue. He knew Mosehan had kept his word. He also knew the other Rangers would disobey orders if their leader did not return and they suspected treachery on Alvord’s part.
“I told you Chacon’ll be alone down there. He doesn’t want to share with the rest of his men. Things’ve been a mite tight down here since he stopped raiding up north of the border and he needs the money. You’ll get him, all right.”
“Then you’ll have nothing to worry about. See you, Burt.”
“Yeah, see you, Cap’n,” Alvord replied. “You help the cap’n all you can, Billy. See you do.”
In view of the way Stiles allowed Alvord to trick and use him, it could be assumed he was far from being intelligent. However, he could feel that the game had gone beyond the depths he liked to be at. Something told him he was being used again and the odds were high. His eyes went to the distance where the spring lay hidden in a fold of the ground. He began to consider his fate if anything went wrong with the capture of Chacon. Stiles had spent time around the Chacon camp and seen the sheer brutality the Mexican and his men practiced as casually as other men laughed and joked. He thought also of the words of the two Texans. Whichever way the game went, Billy Stiles knew he would be real unpopular and make some bad enemies.
Guessing what preyed on Stiles’s mind, Mosehan rode slightly behind the young outlaw and watched him. Mosehan glanced at the sky and estimated how much time he had before dark. He decided not to reach the spring until after dark and so told Stiles to stop and rest the horses.
Neither man spoke as they sat in the shade of a bush and smoked, waiting for the sun to go down. Then Stiles settled down, using his arms for a pillow, and shut his eyes as if going to sleep. Mosehan took the hint, also settling down, drawing his hat over his face a little, and lay still, breathing evenly. For almost half an hour neither man moved, then Stiles stirred and peered toward Mosehan. Slowly the young outlaw eased himself into a sitting position and spoke quietly.
“Cap’n Mosehan?”
Satisfied that Mosehan really was asleep Stiles came to his feet and padded silently toward his horse. He kept a wary eye on Mosehan all the time and on reaching his tethered horse cautiously opened the saddlebag, slid in a hand, then took out a pair of handcuffs, relics from the days before the robbery, when he and Alvord were deputy sheriffs. Stiles threw a look at Mosehan, who still lay as if asleep. Then he opened the handcuffs and swung one down, allowing it to click closed around his wrist. He removed the handcuff and began to move slowly toward Mosehan.
With a grunt and a groan Mosehan came awake, stirring first and causing Stiles to whip the handcuffs into his trousers pocket fast. Then Mosehan sat up, stretched, and came to his feet.
“Something wrong, Billy?”
“Naw, Cap’n. Just went to see if the hosses are all right. Be night by the time we get to the spring.”
For all that, Mosehan did not appear to be in any hurry to start. He insisted that they eat some food from his saddlebags and drink water from their canteens. Then they mounted and rode on. The sun set and through the darkness Mosehan saw a small, flickering campfire in the hollow a mile ahead.
A slim, tall, and lithe figure rose from by the fire at the approach of the two riders. His right hand dipped, a Smith & Wesson revolver slid into his palm in a very fast move.
“Quien es?”
“Stiles and the hombre Burt sent,” Stiles replied in a loud voice, as if making sure there could be no mistake. “Saludos, Augustino!”
Mosehan looked for the first time at the man he sought, the most wanted murderer in the Rangers’ book. Chacon stood six foot, his lean frame showed a whipcord strength and power. The beard, which gave him the name of the Hairy One, had been shaved off, leaving
a lean, handsome, yet hard and merciless face. His clothes were silver-decorated and expensive, the dress of a rich hidalgo, but the gunbelt, into the holster of which he returned the pearl-handled Smith & Wesson, showed signs of use, and the knife at the other side of the belt was no decoration.
Even though he had holstered his gun, Chacon gave no sign of relaxing. The wolf caution that kept him alive did not desert him even when safe below the border. He studied the two men for a moment, then said: “Leave your horses over there and join me.”
Mosehan looked around him. One thing was for sure, Chacon picked this place real good. They were surrounded by scrub oaks through which silent passage would be difficult and that offered them cover from prying eyes. Unless Chacon’s men were already in place, they could not get close without giving warning. Then Mosehan saw another way of looking at the rendezvous. If he himself had men following, they could not move in without alerting Chacon, and none could see from the rims of the hollow just who stood at the fire. It began to appear that Alvord told the truth and Chacon did plan to double-cross his men.
They gathered at the fire and squatted on their haunches around it. Chacon’s eyes went to Mosehan; cold eyes, as black and unfeeling as those of a diamondback rattlesnake.
“I hear you have horses for sale. It is strange. I have heard nothing of a herd being-bought, shall we say?”
Mosehan tried to look as easy as he felt uneasy. “Hell, that was up toward Backsight, got them from Colonel Raines’s hoss spread. That’s well north of where you ride. You got friends up there?”
“I have friends in many places. They hear much and from them I hear.”
Deciding the only way would be to act like a tough and touchy horse thief whose word had been doubted, Mosehan gave an angry grunt.
“Billy Stiles here brought me and Burt Alvord vouched for me. If that’s not good enough, I’ll find me another buyer.”
Chacon laughed, a hard, brittle, and savage laugh. “You would’ve been dead if you came without their vouching for you, senor. I am very fast with a gun.”
Coming to his feet in a casual move and keeping his hand clear of his gun, even though Chacon’s eyes went to his face and the Mexican tensed like a crouching cougar, Mosehan turned and walked toward his horse. At any moment he expected to feel the shattering impact of a .44 bullet between his shoulders, but he kept his step firm and did not even glance back. His rifle hung in the saddle boot of the horse but he ignored it, reaching instead into the saddlebag and taking out a bottle of whiskey. Then he walked back to the fire, meeting Chacon’s gaze all the time.
“Here, let’s have a drink,” he said, removing the cork and holding out the bottle to Chacon. “This’s the best whiskey you’ll ever taste.”
“You first, senor,” Chacon replied. “An old custom of my country.”
Feeling he had never needed a drink more in his life, Mosehan tilted the bottle and felt the harsh bite of the whiskey as it slid down his throat. He wiped the top of the bottle and passed it to Chacon, who accepted, sniffed at the bottle, then drank. Chacon appeared to relax slightly when he tossed the bottle into Stiles’s eager and nervous hands.
“The good Billy appears unduly worried, senor,” Chacon remarked with a grin. “He is not used to a life of crime, of course.”
“Likely get used to it, running with Burt,” Mosehan replied, slapping at his pockets. “Hell, I’m out of tobacco. Either of you gents got any?”
For all his faults Chacon could show all the social graces, even the unwritten kind of the range country. He removed a small case and held it to Mosehan, who accepted one of the thin black cigars. Chacon took another and then offered Stiles the case.
Mosehan drew in a deep breath. This was the chance, the moment. He reached down and took a twig from the fire with his left hand, casually holding it out to Chacon. The Mexican nodded his thanks, bent forward to take the offered light-and needed to take his eyes from Mosehan for a second or so.
It was enough!
Mosehan’s hand dipped, the Peacemaker slid from his holster, and the hammer drew back with a satisfying click.
“Throw up your hands, Chacon. I’m Captain Mosehan of the Arizona Rangers.”
Without as much as moving an inch, Chacon coolly surveyed the bore of the big Colt that was aimed at him. Slowly he came to his feet, trying to stare Mosehan down for the vital split second he needed to have a chance at making his draw and beating the drop. He held his hands away from his sides, clear of his weapons, but did not raise them higher.
“What difference will raising my hands make?” he asked. “You could kill me just as easily with them raised as lowered.”
Even now all could go wrong and Mosehan knew it. A split second’s inattention would be enough to let Chacon make his move. Mosehan had seen the way the Mexican drew and knew that if he was not among the ten fastest guns in the west, Chacon could still move fast enough to chance beating the drop.
“All right, Stiles,” Mosehan snapped. “Handcuff him.”
“H-handcuff?” Stiles gulped. “W-where do I get the cuffs from?”
“Out of your pocket, you double-dealing rat,” replied Mosehan, his voice savage. “I wasn’t asleep and saw you fooling with them.”
Gulping down something that seemed to be blocking his throat, Stiles moved toward Chacon. He was still not fully committed to either side and there might be a chance of making some definite move that would allay Chacon’s suspicions.
“From behind, not between us,” Mosehan barked. “You’ve held a law badge and know the right way.”
Chacon tensed slightly as Stiles moved behind him. Seeing this, Mosehan decided a warning would not be amiss.
“When you raided Morenci and killed the storekeeper, Chacon, I made a promise that I’d hang your hide on the wall. That storekeeper you and your boys cut up was my friend. I aim to take you across the border alive, or leave you here- dead.”
The bandido nodded, knowing Mosehan was not bluffing this time. He submitted to having his hands secured by the handcuffs, for Mosehan moved around to be able to see that Stiles did his work correctly. Stiles realized he had fully committed himself now. Chacon would never believe he brought the handcuffs along for any other purpose than their present use. He removed the fancy Smith & Wesson, tossing it to one side, then slid the knife from its sheath and flung it away into the bushes. With the air of one who had done his work well Stiles stepped clear. Then he gave a startled yelp as he saw the bore of the Colt turn toward him.
“Hey, Cap’n!” he squawked. “You’re pointing that thing at me!”
“That’s right,” Mosehan replied with a cold grin. “Shed the gunbelt and toss it this ways.”
Chacon laughed. “You trust the good Billy, no?”
“I trust the good Billy no,” Mosehan admitted. “Which same I reckon I showed more sense than you did.”
Opening his mouth to protest his good intentions, Billy Stiles unbuckled his gunbelt. He saw the angry gleam in Mosehan’s eyes and knew the Ranger captain’s temper was wearing thin. Under the strain a lesser man might have lost his head by now and thrown lead into both Stiles and Chacon. So Stiles obeyed the order to toss aside his gun.
Without holstering his Colt, Mosehan moved around to collect all the weapons. He picked up Chacon’s revolver and Stiles’s gunbelt, placing the first in his saddlebag and the second around his saddle horn. Then he glanced at the rifles in the saddle boots of Chacon’s big grulla horse and Stiles’s fast little bay. Holstering his Colt as he drew Stiles’s rifle, Mosehan worked the lever fast, throwing the bullets out until the magazine tube held no more. Then he shoved the rifle back and took the Centennial Model Winchester from Chacon’s saddle and emptied it. He slid the rifle back, watching the others. That rifle would be a vital piece of evidence against Chacon, for it came from the store in Morenci, taken from the murdered storekeeper.
While all this happened, Chacon watched and calculated his chances. He might have tried to turn and dash f
or the cover of the scrub oaks. But he remembered how fast Mosehan threw down on him. Before he could take two steps he would be dead. So he stayed still, knowing that while alive he had a chance of escape.
“What now, senor?” Chacon asked.
“We wait for daylight and ride for the border,” Mosehan replied. “So sit down. Stiles, tend to the horses.”
Chacon settled down while Billy Stiles took care of the horses. Mosehan moved back until in a position where he could watch both men. Chacon sat comfortably and his face showed nothing of his thoughts. He estimated the distance to the border and the chance of meeting some of His men or other friends before reaching it.
“I don’t think Colonel Kosterliski would be eager to see you kidnapping a Mexican citizen, senor,” he finally said. “I have heard the Rurales are in this part of the border. That is why I chanced coming here.”
“Yeah, that’s what Don Emilio wanted folks to think. Keep your amigos out of my way. I saw him a week back. He wouldn’t help me take you, but he took all his men west and won’t be back for a few days.”
An admiring gleam showed in Chacon’s eyes. He could admire a shrewd enemy and a brave one. The Ranger captain proved to be both and Chacon bore him no malice, reserving that for Billy Stiles and Burt Alvord.
“I wish you every success in your plan, Captain. It will be a pity after all your work to die with me uncaptured.”
Saying that, Chacon lay down on his side, ignoring the awkwardness of having his hands fastened behind his back, and went to sleep. Stiles also settled down but Mosehan rested his back against a tree and watched them. Three times in the night Chacon woke and looked toward Mosehan but each time the Ranger captain’s eyes showed he did not sleep.
At dawn Mosehan roused the other two and ordered Stiles to saddle the three horses ready to ride. With a moan but without argument Billy Stiles did as ordered. He tried no tricks and stood back when the horses were saddled, a pained look on his face as Mosehan tested that he could mount without the saddle slipping and throwing him to the ground.