“Do not grieve, Señorita Maria,” Benito attempted to comfort her, although a lump was fast rising in his own throat; he was inclined to be sentimental and had become very attached to the formidable Jim Rand. “He has lived a rich life, and ...”
“He still lives!” she shrieked.
“Silencio—por favor!” gasped Benito. “Do not scream like a muchacha. Try to remember you are supposed to be a young hombre.” He flopped beside her, stared anxiously at Jim’s bloodied countenance. “He lives you say? Is this for certain?”
“I felt his heartbeat!” she panted.
And, at that precise moment, Jim opened his eyes to discover that his face was being pressed to the heaving bosom of the still-weeping girl. Characteristically, his first words were born of his practical streak.
“For Pete’s sake,” he growled at Benito, “fetch her serape and cover her up!”
Benito hastened to obey, after darting an apprehensive glance upward. From here, very little of the activity at Powderhorn Bend could be seen. Maria gathered the serape about herself, adjusted her sombrero and studied the big man anxiously. He had rolled over and was hauling himself to a sitting posture. His head had ceased to bleed; so had the wound at his left side. But there was a great deal of congealed blood and he was covered in dust from head to toe; he didn’t look at his best right now. The bullet-burn on his neck showed livid above his bandanna.
“Is a foolish question, Amigo Jim,” frowned Benito, “but I ask it anyway. How ...”
“I know what you’re gonna ask,” muttered Jim. “How do I feel? Well, here’s a straight answer. I feel ...!” But now, remembering that Maria was a lady, he resisted the urge to indulge in profanity; he simply said, “I ache all over.”
“Your face ...!” fretted Maria.
“Let up on that wailing,” chided Jim, as he raised a hand to investigate his head-wound. “Try to forget you’re female.”
“Such a fall.” Benito shook his head incredulously. “I wonder you could still be alive, amigo.”
“I was on the roof of the caboose,” Jim recalled, squinting up toward the stalled northbound. “I got off a few shots, downed a couple of ’em—and then—saw a certain party. And that’s the last I remember.” He nodded knowingly. “Bullet must’ve knocked me clear off the roof, and I rolled all the way here. Well—by thunder ...”
He began struggling to his feet, with Benito mumbling a protest.
“Do not try to move, amigo. There may be bones broken. The conductor says there is a medico with the passengers ...”
“That’s one piece of luck,” grunted Jim. He was on his feet now. Having ascertained that his head-wound was naught but a gash high on his forehead, he gingerly examined the crease at his left side. Maria’s heart went out to him, as his face contorted. “Uh! Well—it feels like—the slug didn’t hit my ribs.”
“You are one fine caballero, Señor Jim,” murmured Maria. “I give thanks you live—while I mourn the others—”
“What others?” Jim demanded, and he unholstered his .45 and began checking it, assuring himself that its leather sheath had protected it from damage.
“One ranchero,” frowned Benito, “and the fireman. Is all very sad, my amigo.”
“Two dead, huh?” mused Jim. “Well, that’s rough but, the way those bandidos were slinging lead all over the place, it’s a wonder there weren’t more passengers killed. Anyway ...” Again he stared up toward the bend, “they aren’t getting away with it, that’s for sure. They’ll answer for what they did today.”
Benito talked on, as he took Maria’s arm and began following Jim up the slant. The big man climbed slowly and with care. His wounds plagued him but, unfortunately for Gil Farnsworth and his venal henchmen, he had suffered no broken bones. He was capable of pursuing the raiders, tracking them down one by one. He was sure of the identity of the dandified rider, the man rigged as a tinhorn gambler, the man whose bandanna-mask could not obscure a fancy cravat in which a pearl stickpin showed clear. Despite the bandanna, the resemblance to the man sketched by Owen Tully was undeniable.
“And now,” he told Benito, “you toss my gear out of that caboose, while I go find the doctor.”
Maria immediately voiced a protest. She could safely do so, as they were some distance behind the second passenger car and out of earshot of the still-agitated travelers. It was a scene of hustle and bustle, with an atmosphere of shock still hanging heavy over the stalled northbound. Beyond the bend, Dan Mayhew and a half-dozen burly male passengers were laboring at clearing the tracks. The doctor, an elderly, slender Mexican sporting a silvery moustache and beard, was moving among the passengers, courteously enquiring as to how many required his professional services. The bodies of the fireman and the aged ranchero, those two simple men who had died so heroically, had been wrapped in blankets and placed in the caboose. Jim realized the necessity, but was sorry on Maria’s account.
“It’s too bad you’ll have to finish your journey to Moredo with a couple of dead men sharing the caboose,” he told her, “but I guess you realize it can’t be helped.”
Again she vehemently protested, and he wondered if she were concerned for his welfare, or selfishly preoccupied with her own future.
“We made a bargain, Señor Jim. You promised to take me to Moredo, finish your business there—and then escort me to Redstone and see me on my way to San Francisco.”
“I’ll meet you and Benito in Moredo,” he gruffly assured her. “You’ll manage until I get there. Meantime—I got a little unfinished business with one of those bandidos.”
“To fight one,” she warned, “you might have to fight all, and there are so many! You are outnumbered!”
“Well ...” He grinned a harsh grin, “maybe I can persuade ’em to fight me one at a time.”
“But ...!” she began.
“I got no time to argue,” he growled. “Take care of her, cucaracha.”
“Si,” nodded Benito. “You may depend on me, Amigo Jim.”
“That’ll be a novelty,” quipped Jim, as he began trudging toward the train.
A short time later, squatting beside the baggage car, he submitted to the ministrations of the gentle Dr. Amendaro with as much patience as he could muster. Benito had tossed out his saddle, harness and pack roll. He had fed himself a stiff shot from his bourbon bottle and, by the time the medico finished bandaging his head and torso, was determined to be up and away.
“But you are not fit to ride, señor,” Amendaro protested.
To which Jim grimly retorted:
“Watch me.”
Eight – The Moredo Scene
He swung into his saddle, grunting against the pain of his side-wound, and, despite the white sash of bandage under the brim of his Stetson, despite his stiff movements and his grimace of pain, Maria had never seen a man so formidable. The fact that he would be one against many no longer seemed important. “In Moredo”, he told them, as he stared up toward the summit of the timbered rise, “you shouldn’t have any trouble getting past the reception committee.” This advice addressed to Maria. “Just keep your head down and your sombrero pulled tight, and nothing can go wrong. Benito will find a place for you to stay.”
“You ...” she began.
“I’ll meet you in Moredo,” he assured her. “Bet your life on that.”
“The hombre that took your rifle, Amigo Jim,” offered Benito, “is called Rick. Somebody spoke of him by name. He is a big one, and ugly.”
“How can you hope to find these men?” wondered Maria.
“They might cover their tracks,” said Jim, “but covering tracks is never all that easy, and they might get overconfident. They won’t be expecting that anybody could be tagging them so soon.” He raised a hand in farewell. “Hasta la vista.”
“Vaya con Dios,” she murmured, with great fervor.
He nudged the charcoal with his knees and, trembling in anticipation, the big stallion took to the slope. Halfway to the summit, Jim glanced back and d
ownward and estimated that the northbound would be resuming its journey within the quarter-hour. The engineer and his helpers had almost finished clearing the obstruction from the tracks.
~*~
At noon, when the vast crowd assembled at the Moredo railroad depot to stare expectantly southward, while the town’s brass band blared a stirring martial tune and the mayor and other civic dignitaries looked to the painstakingly-written speeches of welcome they would deliver to the distinguished visitors, while Art Sharkey and his son looked to the shine of their boots and while the depot staff began waxing impatient, Jim was far to the northwest of Powderhorn Bend and diligently following track of his quarry. It seemed the raiders were unconcerned at the clear hoof prints left by their horses, until ...
Jim reined up and cursed bitterly, because he knew what to expect from here on. Small wonder the bandits hadn’t cared about leaving tracks; they had been headed for this broad creek, the shallows of which they could probably travel for many miles upstream or down. It stretched before him, gleaming in the sunlight. All twelve horses had entered the water at this point; that much was obvious. Upstream or down? In which direction were they travelling now? He hooked a leg over his saddlehorn, rolled and lit a cigarette and did some deep thinking. When his cigarette was half-smoked, he took his bearings and made his decision. Downstream would take the desperadoes southward—towards the scene of the hold-up and, ultimately, to the north border of Burnett County. Would they travel in that direction? Hardly.
“Better to follow the bank upstream,” he reflected, as he started the charcoal moving again. “They have to quit the water sooner or later and, when they do, they have to leave tracks.”
Until almost one p.m. he travelled the west bank—and never a sign of his quarry. He let the black horse drink and graze while he satisfied his own appetite with hard tack from the provisions in his saddlebags. Would the desperadoes have waded their horses through the shallows for more than an hour? He doubted it.
Instead of fording at this point and beginning a downstream check of the east bank, he wheeled the black and rode back to that point at which his quarry had entered the water. He would ford there, and then follow the east bank upstream. Better to be systematic—and patient.
~*~
When the northbound finally arrived at the Moredo depot—almost two hours later—confusion ensued. The brass band was giving its best, making it worse than difficult for Toby Jethrow to make himself heard, when he tried to yell news of the hold-up to the civic leaders assembled on the platform. Also a hundred or so locals were cheering themselves hoarse, while high-spirited cowpokes galloped their horses back and forth along the bunting-bedecked main street, discharging their six-shooters to the sky. This was how Moredo folk always began their celebration of the great day. The fact that the northbound had arrived late wasn’t going to make any difference—at least not yet.
Wisely, Benito decided there couldn’t be a better time than now for his and Maria’s quitting the caboose and losing themselves in the crowd. In a way, the confusion and noise were blessings in disguise. He untied Capitan Cortez and nodded for Maria to swing astride. She did so, hefting the gunnysack containing her feminine garb and her personal jewelry—which amounted to a small fortune.
“We go now—José,” he grinned. “And please to keep your head down.”
“I have been bending my head for so long,” she complained, “my neck hurts. Surely, with so much dirt on my face, nobody would recognize me. Surely I can raise my head.”
“It would be best not to take chances,” Benito counseled.
Already, porters of the Moredo depot were unloading freight and, by convenient coincidence, two crates had been toppled from the left side door, forming two steps down which Capitan Cortez could descend with dignity. The burro did so, led by Benito and with Maria firmly astride.
Of the civic leaders assembled on the platform, the first to sense that all was not well was the florid-complexioned man in gray broadcloth with a metal star gleaming bright on his coat lapel; Phil Dagget, sheriff of Moredo County, had a nose for trouble. He bellowed at the cheering throng and won a few moments of respite. The band played on, but not quite as loudly, while the runty burro waddled past the agitated Art and Rosebud Sharkey and their vacant-faced son.
There were times when Benito Espina could not resist the impulse to indulge in levity, and this was one of them. He doffed his sombrero to the mayor and his town councilors and said:
“For this great welcome, muchas gracias from my humble self and Cousin José. But you should not have troubled yourselves. No need for the music. No need for the flowers. A few bottles of tequila would be enough ...”
“Get them stinkin, wet-backs outa here, Phil Dagget!” Sharkey bawled at the sheriff.
“Hush up, Art, for gosh sakes!” chided the sheriff.
“I’m trying to hear what Toby Jethrow’s saying!”
As Capitan Cortez trudged past the still-audible band, Maria flashed the musicians an insolent grin and pretended to conduct them, waving her right arm and yelling, as gruffly as her voice would permit:
“En voz alta!”
“Si—bueno!” grinned Benito. “More loudly, por favor!”
“If somebody don’t get them sassy galoots outa here, I’ll shoot holes though ’em, so help me I will!” raged Sharkey. “Where’s Don Diego? Where’s my boy’s bride ...?”
“They gunned the fireman?” prodded Dagget.
“And some poor old Mex rancher,” nodded Toby, “and a big hombre name of Jim Rand, only Jim’s still alive and kickin’. He took off after ’em, and ...”
“Where’s Don Diego?” demanded Sharkey.
“If you open your big mouth just one more time, Art Sharkey,” fumed the sheriff, “I swear I’ll close it with the butt end of a forty-five!”
“Don Arturo ...” An elderly and dignified ranchero, the neighbor whom Castaldez had asked to pass a message to the Sharkeys, now shouldered his way to where the fat cattleman stood, “I regret Don Diego and his party were obliged to remain in Burnett Junction. It seems the Señorita Maria is missing ...”
“Missin’?” gasped Sharkey. “Holy, jumpin’ snakes, she can’t be missin’! Why would she wanta get lost at a time like this?” He indicated his flabby, uncomprehending offspring. “The handsomest bachelor in Moredo County is waitin’ for her—and she gets lost? Hell’s bells!”
The confusion continued, while Benito led the burro past the musicians, through the milling throng and into Moredo’s broad main street. At this time of the year, every boarding establishment would be booked out. Where to find accommodation suitable for a lady of Maria’s gentle background? He warned her, quietly:
“It would be best if we stay in the Mexican sector of this town—among our own people. I think that is where Amigo Jim would expect to find us.”
“It will not be easy,” she predicted.
“There will be a place for us,” he assured her.
Within ten minutes, Sheriff Dagget and one of his deputies, the burly Chet Baldwin, had heard the conductor’s report of the outrage at Powderhorn Bend, and Dagget was organizing swift and efficient counter-action; the word spread from one end of Moredo to the other in double-quick time, and the posses began assembling outside the county jail. A messenger was sent to summon Dagget’s second deputy, a youthful badge-toter named Adam Matthews. There would be three large posses each led by one of Moredo’s official lawmen.
Deputy Matthews, a slim, good-looking twenty-two year-old, had good reasons for absenting himself from the Foundation Day upheaval at the railroad depot. He had returned to Moredo at eleven thirty this morning after completing a tiring assignment, the delivery of a prisoner to the authorities at Fort Gibbs in the north. After many long hours in the saddle, he felt entitled to rest. He was dozing, when Dagget’s courier pounded on his door at the Jessup boarding house.
Yawning resignedly, he admitted the messenger and listened to the news of the attack on the northb
ound. The news angered him, but he remained calm. He filled the washbowl, dashed cold water into his face and remarked to his informant:
“I wonder why no owlhoot outfit ever thought of it before. The northbound carries no cash-shipments on Foundation Day—but those hacendados come loaded with Mex coin and jewelry. I guess this had to happen sooner or later.”
“Sheriff’s posse is gonna search the Gila Hills,” the local told him. “Chet Baldwin’s takin’ another party across toward Blanco Canyon, and ...”
“And,” guessed Deputy Matthews, “Phil wants my bunch to comb the southeast section of the county.”
“That’s exactly what the sheriff said,” nodded the local. “All the territory down by Arroyo Culebra. Your posse’s waitin’ right now, Adam, at the law office.”
“All right ...” Adam yawned again. “Go tell ’em I’ll be right along.”
In less than two minutes, having donned his Stetson and strapped on his gunbelt, he was hustling along a back alley toward the rear entrance of the barn where his horse was stabled. From that broad doorway fifty yards ahead, the livery proprietor emerged and called to him.
“Got your prad all saddled and ready, Deputy!”
“Thanks, Jubal,” nodded Adam.
And then, only by chance, he happened to glance to his left. This section of Moredo was something of a hotchpotch, a disorganized mixture of the American and the Mexican; it was Adam’s favorite area because he was by nature a gregarious young man, unconcerned with race and color. He got along well with all people of Anglo-Saxon descent, but was also very much at home with the Mexican community. The fence to his left separated many a back yard from the alley he now walked; some of those yards were the playgrounds of American children, others were occupied by Mex ninos.
One of these back yards was part of the property of the widow Carlita Sanchez who, as Adam well knew, operated a small room and board establishment. Her clients were welcome to stable their animals in the rear yard—as two were now doing.
Meet Me in Moredo (A Big Jim Western Book 2) Page 9