Nighthawk

by F. M. Parker

  Hadn’t they been driving stolen cattle across the desert for years?

  There were half a score of valleys leading to Mexico between the north-south trending highlands. It would take a great amount of luck to again find the tracks of the rustlers in that maze of broken topography.

  Edmonton came up the slope and squatted down beside Shallow. “Anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you think we should divide the men and send half to the east and half to the west to try and locate the trail?” asked Edmonton.

  “We could do that and sooner or later pick up sign. But half of our men couldn’t take the cattle from the rustlers or even hold them until one man rode for help. Anyway, my guess is that they are already in Mexico. We’ve lost unless we want to go to Zapata. That’s my guess as to where the heifers will be sold.”

  “What kind of town is this Zapata? Is it law abiding?”

  “There’s really two parts to Zapata. Most of it is for the Mexicans and the law is very strict. That’s the south part. Now there’s a north section made up of cantinas, whorehouses, and rooms for rent. This is an area of four blocks or so and is left fairly much alone for the entertainment of those that are mostly outlaws, killers, rustlers like we’ve been trailing, and general riffraff that has run there to hide or spend some stolen money on a good time.”

  “Will the heifers be easy to sell?”

  Shallow chuckled without mirth. “The Mexicans don’t like Americans because of the battle of 1846 to 1848 which they lost. Even an honest Mexican would buy the stock without any qualms at all. He probably would think he was getting back at the Americans for old wrongs.”

  “What would we do if we did find them in Zapata?”

  “Nothing as long as they stayed in town. The Mexican army wouldn’t allow us to start a full-scale shoot-out.”

  Edmonton was silent for a few moments, gazing off to the south. “We have three Mexican cowhands with us. How well do you know them? How far can they be trusted?”

  Shallow smiled knowingly. “Ah, you plan to send scouts south of the border? Well, I can vouch for two of the Mexes. They’ve worked on jobs with me for several years. They’re some kind of relation to each other. Names are Xavier and Prim Herrera. Cousins, I think. They’re damn good I’ve seen them in action.”

  “We must know exactly who the rustlers are and where the cattle are sold. Tell the men to come here and talk with me.”

  Shallow left and returned with two small, wiry men, both wearing black bristly mustaches. They do look related, thought Edmonton. He noted the long-barreled pistols and cartridge belts full of ammunition strapped to their waists.

  “You want to talk with us?” asked Xavier.

  “Yes, I want you and Prim to go into Mexico. I do not plan to lose my cattle to any gang of rustlers. Every one of them must pay. Will you do it?”

  “It will be very dangerous,” said Xavier, “but we will go. What is it you want us to do?”

  The men discussed their plans for more than half an hour. Then the two Mexican cowboys selected mounts without the Bar E brand and rode at a fast gallop to the south.

  “All right, Ken, now we must tell my partner what we are doing. Send a rider to find Blackaby and ask him to have some men look after the ranch on the Gila. Also, we need supplies, enough to last at least two weeks. And more men with guns if he can spare them. I plan to catch those bloody, thieving rustlers when they come back across the border and either shoot the hell out of them or hang them.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The .30-30 carbine cracked and a fist-size rock a hundred yards away exploded into fragments. Another shot and a second stone was pulverized.

  Samantha lowered the rifle from her shoulder. “How was that, Grandfather?”

  “Fair. Fair,” responded Lafe Tamblin. “But you took a mite long to get your gun on the target. Now try it again. Line your sights as the gun comes up, not down, for that blocks your view of what you want to hit. And don’t hesitate; the second the sights are on, squeeze the trigger.”

  “The rifle kicks a little,” said Sam.

  Lafe chuckled. “Soon you won’t feel that. You’ll be able to shoot a cannon from your shoulder.”

  “I doubt that. But I’ll shoot some more. I want to become an expert marksman.”

  They stood in the front yard of the cabin near the spring. Several small rocks had been placed on top of a large boulder at a reasonable distance for practice. The sun was behind Sam and the line of fire was down the valley.

  She shot rapidly three times. Two were direct hits, smashing the rocks. The third was a glancing blow, flipping the rock into the brush.

  “Good,” said Lafe.

  Sam acknowledged the compliment with a quick smile at him. She was proud of her skill with the rifle. Over the past few days she had practiced more than all the time before. Her handling of the .32 caliber-pistol, which she now wore almost all the time, was only passable. Yet, even with that weapon, she felt the clumsiness leaving her hand.

  “Let’s stop for today, grandfather,” she said. As she reloaded the rifle, her eyes flicked up toward the crest of the mountain.

  Lafe watched his granddaughter’s face. Ever since she had ridden hurriedly to tell him and her father of the warning of the strange young man on Growler Mountain, she had been quiet and seldom smiled or laughed. She had little interest in things around her, except for the daily gun practice and a careful watchfulness of the surrounding land.

  Lafe thought he recognized the symptoms, but was not yet certain how serious the disease was.

  “Do you think it would be safe for me to ride up to the pass?” asked Sam.

  “No, I’m afraid not and neither your father nor I have time to go up with you.”

  Sam pivoted to look directly at Lafe with bright yet self- conscious eyes. “I want to see him again—very much. Is that wrong?”

  “No, Samantha, that’s a womanly feeling and perfectly proper.”

  She liked for him to use her full name at this time. He had started it very recently when the subject they discussed concerned her growing-up emotions. She examined the deep creases in his face and the pale blue, caring eyes. He was easy to talk with.

  “Will I ever see him again?”

  “If he’s halfway smart and has an eye for a pretty young woman, he’ll be back.”

  “I’m not sure, grandfather. He acted as if he had a long distance to travel.”

  “What kind of a fellow was he?”

  “He looked very strong and sure of himself. But he seemed like a gentle man. What do you suppose he was doing on the mountain?”

  “Warning us for one thing. And he was correct, too, for I’ve seen sign of horses. Whoever the riders are, they’ve been on the ridge tops watching us. We must stay on our guard.”

  “I hope dad is safe.”

  “If anyone can take care of himself, your dad can. Somebody has to check the cows and keep the water holes open. And he said he found some wolf tracks around a dead cow. Maybe he can get a shot at it, but they’re cautious animals and few are happened upon. Now let’s go do some irrigating. This hot weather sure causes the meadow grass to use a lot of water.”

  * * *

  The four rustlers sat around the table in the cantina and drank cold beer. All night long the keg of brew had lain in the water at the bottom of the deep well behind the building. Now it rested in a place of honor in a wooden rack on the center of the bar. A thick cotton blanket, wet and dripping onto the earthen floor, hung draped across the cask, prolonging its delicious coolness.

  “Another drink all ‘round,” Corddry called to the barman.

  “God, that’s good drink,” said Kanttner. “Someone in this town sure knows how to brew beer.”

  Caloon nodded his head in agreement. He was in a mellow mood. “How do you know if it was made here?”

  “Berdugo told me,” said Kanttner.

  Corddry chuckled. “Then we shouldn’t have to worry about drinkin
g all the kegs dry.”

  Russ savored a mug of the beverage. He had had little alcohol to drink in his life to compare this against, but he agreed with Kanttner that it had an excellent flavor.

  It was the morning of the third day since the shoot-out with the bandits. Berdugo had met the bone-weary men yesterday on the outskirts of Zapata. He was well known here and had acquired pasture from a friend. The exhausted heifers were left there to recuperate from the long forced drive while the men continued on into town.

  On Berdugo’s advice, the men rented rooms above the cantina and, hardly taking time to pull off their boots and clothing, threw their grimy bodies into the soft beds. Raasleer instructed Berdugo to keep a lookout for the Englishman and other possible danger. Knowing this, all the other members of the rustler band slept the evening and night away. Not once did they hear the noisy rowdiness from the bar below.

  Russ arose remarkably refreshed and with no effect from the long, hard ride. He found a bathhouse; while he leisurely soaked the dirt away, the attendant washed his clothing. They were dried and ironed by the time he finished.

  Caloon came in as Russ left. “Raasleer’s out selling the cows. Said for us all to meet him in the saloon after dinner.”

  “All right,” said Russ. “I’m going to get a shave. I’ll see you there later on.”

  With his stomach full and the beer pleasant in his mouth, Russ leaned his back against the wall and viewed his surroundings. The cantina was large with a long, wooden bar and about twenty tables. Russ judged seventy or so customers could be served at one time. Besides his own crew, there were three old Mexican men near the open front door.

  At the far end of the bar and beyond a swinging door was the restaurant that had supplied the food for their noon meal. The aroma of refried pinto beans, baking corn bread, and the tanginess of chili peppers drifted to Russ as he sat relaxed. It was good to be off the desert and back in civilization for a spell.

  Raasleer and Berdugo came in from the street through the open door with their spurs jingling and wide smiles on their faces. Raasleer carried a leather pouch and he lifted it up to let it drop into his outstretched hand. The dull metal clink of gold coins came to the four men at the table.

  Both men pulled up chairs and sat down. Raasleer spoke, pleased with himself. “We got a very good price. We finally agreed on thirty-one dollars a head for the heifers. Could have gotten another four or five if we waited until they had gotten back into condition. Several were lame.”

  Four Americans, armed with pistols on their hips, came into the cantina and bellied up to the bar to order drinks. Raasleer and Caloon were facing that direction and both shifted their views to look the men over. The new arrivals appeared not to notice the men at the table.

  The rustler leader spoke in a low voice. “One hundred eighty animals at thirty-one dollars each. My three shares, Corddry’s two, all the rest of you one apiece, including the two men taking care of the cows back at camp. That’s eleven shares.”

  He looked at Caloon and Russ. “You’ve both earned a full share since you were in all the way on stealing these cows.”

  The two men nodded.

  Raasleer continued to speak. “First off, we take out one hundred dollars American for the local Mexican law so we won’t be bothered by questions.” Raasleer set that quantity aside and then methodically began to count out each man’s portion of what was left into a neat pile. When he finished, he re-bagged his gold, along with that belonging to the two men in the Kofas, for later division.

  Russ raked his pile of gold coins into his hand and shoved them into a pocket. He stood up, preparing to leave.

  “Wait,” said Raasleer, “I want to buy all of you a drink of the best whiskey in the house.” He waved a hand at the bar owner. “Bring a bottle of your best.”

  Russ reseated himself and watched the bartender spin six shot glasses around the table and pour them brimfull with amber liquid.

  “Here’s to a job well done.” Raasleer raised his glass.

  Caloon caught Russ’s eye, the look saying, “At least the son of a bitch is correct about that.” And they lifted their drinks with the others and downed them with a gulp.

  The flame of the liquid seared Russ’s throat, the fumes burned his nostrils. The beer had been good; he had expected the whiskey to be also. The harsh, rasping passage of it down into his gullet proved him painfully wrong.

  He held his face steady, kept the tears out of his eyes. The heat passed and he stood up. He touched the edge of his hat to the men he bad fought a battle with and strode from the cantina.

  A feeling of success excited Russ. In less than a week he had earned a man’s yearly salary and he was safely in Mexico with it. Then, just as rapidly as the wonderful sensation had arrived, it faded away.

  He was still a murderer. The gold hanging heavily against his leg had come from the sale of stolen cattle. Honest men would want nothing to do with him. The girl of the Growlers would spit in his face if he dared approach her as an equal.

  He turned away from those thoughts and surveyed the town of Zapata spread before him. It was larger than he had expected, perhaps with a population nigh a thousand, and very prosperous appearing.

  A medium-size stream wound through the center of town. The main street followed along beside it. Lining the thoroughfare were many places of business. There was a superabundance of cantinas, all concentrated on the north end of the street. The town had many homes. Small adobes of the peons bordered the streets. Very prestigious residences were located on the higher bench where more cooling winds blew.

  He noticed the wide main street had been graveled to control the mud when it rained. A sign before a new building under construction caught his attention. Using his knowledge of Spanish, learned from his father, who was fluent in the language, Russ made out the words: a hardware and farm supply store would soon be open for business there.

  Russ was surprised at the need for so large a structure for that purpose. He looked beyond the town limits. On both sides of the stream and as far away as he could see, lay irrigated farmland.

  He turned back to the livery stable, saddled his roan horse, and rode out into the cultivated bottomland. As he moved along, he mentally calculated the acres being cropped and judged there must be three to four thousand.

  A road angled off to the west and climbed up to the first bench level above the flood plain. Wanting to get a better view of the surprisingly large irrigation system, Russ guided the horse onto the road. He touched the horse with his spurs and the animal broke into a lope.

  At the top of the grade, Russ halted to look down. The watered fields were startlingly green against the dark brown of the desert. On the upper edge of each plot of land ran an irrigation ditch. Here and there men were in the fields keeping the corrugations open or removing weeds. Most of the crops were hay; however, vegetables and orchards of apples and pears were also common. Some of the trees were very large. The people had lived here many years. Mexico was an old country. Russ wished he had one of the farms and the peace that went with it.

  From a short distance away an old woman’s voice, calling a warning in Spanish, startled Russ out of his reverie.

  “Manuel, that horse will kill you. Your old bones will break when he throws you on ground.”

  “Woman, I have tamed a thousand mustangs in my day. What is one more?”

  Russ examined the house off to his right, and the small wooden corral near it. He saw movement between the railings and then a rapidly bobbing head as a rider was bucked around the enclosure. The head suddenly vanished. The old woman screamed.

  The roan leaped into life at Russ’s sharp command and rushed up to slide to a stop at the corral. Russ went up and over the horizontal poles. And down inside to see the mustang still bucking, trying to throw the empty saddle.

  The horse came around, its flying heels hurling large clods of dirt, and bore down on the old Mexican sitting groggily on the ground. Russ sprang forward. With all his
strength he slapped the horse along the side of its head with his big hat, deflecting the wild beast a foot from the thrown rider.

  He hoisted the man to his feet and shuffled him rapidly through the gate to the outside.

  “Muchas gracias, mi joven amigo” (Many thanks, my young friend), said the man and leaned on the poles of the corral.

  “De nada grandfather,” replied Russ. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, only slightly dizzy.”

  The woman hurried up. “You silly old man. I told you not to try that.”

  “Enough, woman. Everything is all right now. You should be telling this new friend how much you appreciate that I am still alive.”

  She turned large brown eyes, the fear and dread just fading from them, on Russ. “The old bandit is all I have in the world.” She reached out to stroke the man’s veined hand. “Thank you for keeping him safe.”

  Russ smiled at her and turned back to the man. “Do you want me to take the fire out of the horse for you?”

  “Ah, that would be much appreciated,” said the man, very much pleased.

  Picking up a lasso from where it hung on one of the uprights of the gate, Russ went back inside the corral. The horse had ceased its frantic bucking and stood breathing deeply at the far side of the pen. Its wild eyes never left the man as he closed in.

  The lasso flew true over the animal’s head and settled around the long neck. Instantly the horse charged away. Russ ran with him, holding firmly to the end of the rope. As he passed the snubbing post set in the center of the corral, he took a hasty turn of the lasso around it.

  The mustang hit the end of the rope and swapped ends in a cloud of dust. He went halfway to his knees and struggled not to go all the way down.

  Russ loosened the rope from the post and dashed up to lunge into the saddle. His sudden weight almost toppled the horse. As the animal caught his balance and came fully to his feet, Russ flipped the noose from his head.

  Then all hell broke loose as the mustang went into a paroxysm of bucks. For the next two minutes, the man and horse warred against each other.