Texas Blood Feud

by Dusty Richards

  Reg nodded at his reply and took up a flour tortilla to load with eggs and meat.

  “Maria made those,” Susie whispered, going past.

  “They’re real good,” Reg said extra loud, holding his wrap up. “You figure they went that way?”

  “Just a hunch. You boys work east and do some looking. I think we’d’ve heard if they were taken that way.”

  Reg nodded with his mouth full.

  Chet hoped he was right. There was lots of country to cover.

  The two rode out after breakfast. The black horse was in tow, with their bedding and a batching outfit, plus the Sharps rifle wrapped in a flannel blanket under the canvas and diamond hitch. Dobie was a dun horse with a little age and better natured than a dozen others, big enough to bear Matt in a long trot beside Chet and Strawberry. Fresh shod, the red roan would do to take to hell and back. It was noon when they watered them at a cypress box buried in a dry creek. The box was set down in the sand and captured the under-surface flow. The ranch had hundreds of them. Most of them Chet had planted in his youth. Each one took about two days to dig, set up, and be sure that they worked.

  The cattle in the area were mostly steers and they looked edgy. Moved aside at the sight of the riders and then took to the brush. Some even threw their tails over their backs and ran off like a haint was after them.

  A half-eaten salt block was close by. He’d remind the boys to scatter them farther out. Made the cattle range more.

  In the saddle they rode on. Chewing jerky for lunch, they reached a small settlement west of the—C boundary. A few jacales, some burros, a couple of skinny dogs, naked brown children, chickens, and goats populated the ranchero. Some women came outside and used their hands to shade them from the glare.

  “Buenas tardes,” he said, removing his hat for the gray-headed woman who looked in charge.

  She returned the greeting in Spanish.

  “In the past month did anyone come through here with several big mules?” He hoped his Spanish was good enough that she could understand him.

  “Big mules?”

  “Yes, big mules.”

  “Si. They had maybe a dozen?”

  He nodded to encourage her. “Did you know these men?”

  “Bandidos. They demanded we butcher a goat for them and cook it for them.”

  “Did you know them?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did you hear their names?”

  “Sí, Gill was the boss. Toledo was a Mexican. Napoleon was the other gringo.”

  “You know them?” Chet asked Matt.

  “I bet his name is Gilford. Amos Gilford. Worthless outlaw. I don’t know any Toledo. But I bet that Napolean is Napolean Thames. He’s a remittance man.”

  “Ain’t that a second son of some rich family in Europe living on a pension? What in the hell is he stealing mules for?” Chet shook his head and checked the sun. The warm winter day wasn’t far from being over. “I would like to buy a fat goat and hire you to cook it,” he said to the woman.

  She blushed like a virgin bride. “I will choose a fat one for you, señor, and your amigo. Gracias.”

  Matt dropped out of the saddle and stretched. “Sure beats me cooking it.”

  “I wanted to repay her for the information.”

  Matt lowered his voice. “I bet them rustlers did more than demand a goat from these women with their men gone.”

  “I thought the same thing.” He waited until the woman gave the other three her orders. “Where are your husbands?”

  “Down in Mexico working in the mines. We have no work up here, so they go down there and work for several months at a time.”

  Chet nodded. “Those bandidos say where they were going with the mules?”

  “I heard them talk of El Negro once,” the woman, whose name was Nina, said.

  Chet frowned at Matt. “You ever been there?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a real hellhole on the Rio Grande. Outlaws and the scum of the earth gather there. Bad place.”

  “Bad place for my mules.” Chet shook his head.

  “We have some pulque,” she said, squatted with them on the ground while the others dispatched the bleating young goat and began to butcher him.

  “Oh, we could not drink her pulque, could we, Matt?” He glanced over at his partner, seated with his back against the jacal, his stiff leg out in front on the ground.

  “Oh, I could use a little of it.”

  Chet shrugged. “Bring me some, too.”

  Nina was in her thirties and acted as the hostess. The other three women were in their mid-twenty or late teens. The youngest, Cherie, brought out a guitar. She sat on the ground and tuned it. The pregnant one, Louise, watched over the cabrito they’d put on the spit. And Deloris, the shortest and best-looking one, brought them the pulque in mugs.

  Soon, Cherie was strumming a song about an outlaw horse. Her voice was soft, but it carried. Deloris began to shuffle-dance, her lace petticoats twisting under her denim skirt. Her actions made Chet forget about the mules and a place called El Negro.

  Their pulque, a mild beer made from corn and sugar, took the edge off the approaching night. A warm fire reflected heat in their faces and made light. The women wanted to dance, and Chet obliged since his partner’s stiff leg hobbled him. So he danced with them and they drank more pulque.

  Their mesquite-roasted goat proved to be succulent, and mixed with tortillas, frijoles, and peppers, more pulque, and slow dancing, the night went by to the quiet strum of the guitar.

  His head hurt when he sat up the next morning. Chilly air had awakened him. A hint of a woman’s musk was in his nose. The sun still wasn’t up. He dressed quickly and pulled on his boots. There was a fire blazing in the pit, and he put a blanket over his shoulder and went over there to absorb some of the heat.

  The women and several small children squatted there and used the warmth of the blaze, too.

  “You are hungry, señor?” Nina asked.

  He shook his head. The saliva in his mouth waiting for a cup of real coffee about floated his teeth out.

  “Señor Matt gave us some coffee. You want some?”

  “Sí, gracias.” Had she read that on his face? Whew. Coffee was a high-priced luxury for these people, and he’d expected some scorched barley water as a substitute. Good thinking by Matt.

  The steaming brew delivered in his cup tasted very sweet when he sipped it. More of Matt’s generosity. These people drank sugar with coffee added when they had the chance. His partner hobbled on the scene and nodded good morning.

  “These lovely ladies sure know how to entertain us, don’t they?” Matt asked, lowering himself to the ground.

  Chet shook his sore head in defeat, and then he snickered. “They damn sure do.”

  “Maybe you will come by this way again?” Nina asked.

  “If we don’t, we’d be damn fools,” Chet said, and laughed.

  Nina smiled, pleased, and spoke to the other women about it. They gave their approval with nods.

  When the sun was up, his head was still almost too big for his hat. They left waving at the women and children. Black horse in tow, they rode southwest. For a place he’d never been before. A place called El Negro.

  Chapter 18

  The land around Chet and Matt proved drier than the hill country. Even the pear cactus slabs were black on the edges and curled from the drought. Any grass left was long dry and blanched by the sun. Many lifeless mesquite trunks stood black and twisted. Dead cow carcasses littered the way, still covered with paper-thin skin with patches of hair. Like they’d died and cured out all at the same time.

  Horse skulls with pinching teeth exposed were among the dead. It was not a country Chet wanted to dally in for very long.

  “Campo Muerto,” Matt said in disgust.

  “That what they call it?” Chet asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. I never been here before and I ain’t coming back very soon.” Matt twisted in the saddle like he di
dn’t trust the place.

  “It ain’t a place where you’d wake up smiling,” Chet said.

  They found a small rancheria in the late afternoon. Hardly more than a ramada, covered with palms fronds, and a corral with a well. A shy woman with a baby wrapped in the scarf that went around her neck stood under the straw shade and watched them ride up.

  Two vaqueros in leather clothing and high-crown straw sombreros showed up next. They sauntered around the corner of the jacal with a hard look at the two visitors.

  “Buenas tardes,” Chet said, shoving his hat back with his thumb. “Is there enough water here for our horses?”

  “Ah, sí, señor,” the shorter one said. “You will have to draw it. We have no windmill.”

  “That’s fine. My name’s Byrnes, his name is Green.”

  “Gracias, señores. My name is Toledo and my cousin is Vargas.” He swept off his sombrero and indicated the well at the side of the corral.

  Chet shared a private look with Matt. Had they found one of the rustlers? Or was it a coincidence? Better not mention the mules till they knew for certain.

  “What brings rich men like you to this poor land?” Toledo asked them as they loosened their cinches at the wooden trough.

  “Looking over the country,” Chet said as casually as he could, rolling up his sleeves to draw water up with the windlass.

  “You like it here?” Toledo asked.

  “Dry, ain’t it?”

  “Always dry, señor.”

  Chet nodded, taking notice that Vargas had slipped away. This was not the same atmosphere as the friendly village of the night before. This was a place to get your throat cut. Such people swooped down on travelers like buzzards and cut their throats while they slept. He and Matt could have some real concerns at this place.

  Chet worked the reel and Matt dumped the water he brought up. Toledo excused himself, and Matt stepped closer.

  “Where did that other snake go?” Matt asked.

  “I think he went for help.”

  Matt frowned.

  “They didn’t think they could take us alone.”

  With a hard look toward the ramada, Matt nodded. “I think that’s exactly what these sons a bitches have in mind.”

  “I agree. We get our horses watered, then we’ll ride on. I have no intention of camping here tonight.”

  “Good.” Matt shook his head as if upset. “This is sure a tough country, and even tougher people.”

  When the horses were full, Slocum rode over and thanked Toledo, who’d come back and was lounging in the doorway. “Do I owe you any money?”

  “No. God gave us the water and you hauled it up.”

  “Gracias. Your cousin sick? He sure disappeared once we got here.”

  “No. He went to see a woman.” Toledo was lying, and not doing a good job of it.

  “We’ll be moving on. Thanks again.”

  “No problem. Stop any time, mi amigo.”

  He would, when Toledo was planted under a cross. He started to rein Strawberry around.

  “Sell me that great horse,” Toledo said, tossing his head at Strawberry.

  Chet shook his head. “Not for sale.” Then he booted the animal after Matt, who’d already started off with the black packhorse in tow.

  They’d made some good distance from the rancheria by dark. The land was flat, covered with short greasewood, and a small rise to the west hid the dying sun. It looked defensible enough to Chet. Besides, he felt bone tired when he dropped from the saddle.

  “Jerky all right?” Matt asked, starting to take off the hitch.

  “Jerky’s fine. After we get what we need out, let’s re-hitch that pack and leave our horses saddled. Hobble them and then take two-hour shifts at sleeping.”

  “You sleep the first two.”

  Chet wouldn’t disagree. He only used one blanket to wrap in. His six-gun resting beside his head, he went to sleep on the ground—he could eat later. Somewhere, a coyote serenaded the moon, the last thing he heard before he fell sound asleep.

  Matt woke him up. “We’ve got company.”

  “How many?” Chet came full awake. “How long I have I been sleeping?”

  “Four hours.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “You needed the rest. I think there’s four of them.”

  “Where are they?”

  “A couple are west of us and more east. I’ve heard horses snort both places in the last fifteen minutes,”

  “They coming in?”

  Matt nodded in the starlight. “Working up their nerve.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Both men were on their hands and knees. Chet eased his Winchester half open, turned it to the dim starlight, noted the cartridge, and closed the chamber. “We better spread out and give them a real welcome.”

  “My idea, too.”

  “You stay here. I’ll go south about fifty feet. Are their horses close? We sure can’t afford to lose ours.”

  “I staked them a while ago. They should hold.”

  “You’re thinking now. Thanks.”

  “I wonder if they’ll move in before dawn,” Matt said in a soft whisper.

  “No telling. You stay close to the horses. They want them.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good. I’ll move a ways south and try to locate them.”

  “Keep your head down,” Matt said after him.

  In little more than a crawl to use the greasewood for his cover, Chet moved away from his warm nest. Grateful it wasn’t freezing cold, he turned his ear to the night. A horse snorted softy at a distance from him. That one must belong to the raiders on the west side of camp.

  He removed his hat and raised up in the pearly light to try to see their silhouettes. Nothing. They must be coming in low, too. It had become a waiting game for them. He hated waiting—sitting around. Fighting Comanche, he’d learned how, but it always made his skin crawl and he felt uneasy in his gut.

  At fifteen years old, he got caught out away from the ranch. Him and three bucks played cat and mouse all night in a canyon. He had a Spencer repeater and a five-shot Paterson like the Rangers once carried. The revolver was only a thirty-caliber, so it was limited to close range, and the .50-caliber Spencer used a rimfire cartridge and its range was short, too, but it would fire rapidly enough to stop most chargers.

  All night he eased up the canyon, wanting to keep the sun over his shoulder when they charged him. Indians could be quiet, but not that quiet. He could hear them brush bushes or step on something dry and make it snap before they got off it.

  When dawn came that day, the Comanche charged him—sun in their faces. But they were mad that a fifteen-year-old boy had been outwitting them. He made good shots, and cut down two of them with his Spencer. No breeze. He became engulfed in a cloud of black gun smoke, and the rifle clicked on empty when the third Comanche came with an ax screaming enough to stop his blood flow.

  He drew the Paterson out of his waistband and jammed it in the redman’s belly. His left hand caught the hand with ax as he fired. Snap—a dud.

  Somehow, one-handed, he managed to recock it, and the pistol went off, blowing a hole in the buck’s gut. The warrior slumped to his knees, still trying to use his ax on him. He recocked the hammer again with his right hand and shot him point-blank in the face. The buck fell on his back.

  He’d sat there a long time, thanking God, weak from the exertion and the fear that he’d felt all night. On his butt, he reloaded the revolver, and noticed the cap had fallen off the cylinder that wouldn’t fire. At long last, he put a new tube in the Spencer and sought the other two warriors. To be sure they were dead, he executed them by shooting each one in the back of the head with the rifle.

  Their horses gathered, he rode back to the ranch leading them. His mother ran out to learn what had happened to him and why he hadn’t come in the night before.

  He got sick telling her about it.

  This was no different than that night ex
cept, so far, he’d never heard these ambushers. He worked his way west. Maybe he could find them before they struck. With the strong creosote in his nose, he made snakelike moves. Go a few yards and listen. Then he discovered a dry wash, and could hear horses snoring. Where were the ones they’d brought? He eased himself down in the draw and found the two horses. No sign of the men. They must be up on top and close to Matt by this time. The cinches were tight. He mounted one and turned him away. Leading the other, he went down the wash and up on top.

  “Hold your fire, Matt” he shouted, and drove his spurs in the mustang. “I’m coming in.”

  The pony responded in a big leap. He rode him low, hoping to draw some fire. He did. From the left and right, pistols went off in the night. Bullets whizzed in the air, but by then, he was dismounted and holding the reins. They’d be foolish to shoot their own horses.

  “Where did you get them?” Matt asked, standing with his Winchester ready.

  “Down the way. I wanted them on foot. They won’t be so damn tough and sure of themselves without a horse to escape on.”

  He used the reatas off the saddles and staked the horses. The shooters faded and made no more moves he and Matt could detect, though both stayed awake. Matt told him he thought he’d heard them leaving, but it was dawn before they knew for certain they had gone. Searching on horseback, Chet found where the other two horses had been. “You were right. They left last night, I’d say. You want some sleep?”

  “Naw, I’m awake. Never expected you to bring in two of their horses.” Matt shook his head and laughed.

  “I am, too. I’d like to track them down.” Chet dismounted and checked the hoofprints in the dust. They’d gone south. Obviously, they rode double from the deep tracks of the barefoot ponies. Chet took two tries to remount, then swung aboard.

  “That’s not a cheap saddle on that bay.”

  “No, it ain’t. That damn Vargas went and found their partners and they came after us.”

  “That’s what I figure.”

  “We should find them ahead someplace.”

  Mid-morning, they crossed a ridge and spotted a flag flapping in the distance at some low buildings. Chet got out his field glasses and scoped the place.

  “There’s two horses standing hipshot at the rack. The flag looks like a British one. I’m not sure. Let’s put our horses in that dry wash and bring that Sharps up with some cartridges—we may do a little hunting.”