Rio Matanza (Bodie Kendrick - Bounty Hunter Book 2)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  "Might be I was good luck for 'em," Kendrick pointed out. "Some other fella with a less friendly disposition might've settled the hash for all three instead of just wingin' the one."

  The sheriff smiled skeptically. "If you say so."

  "Either way," Kendrick said, "I reckon they braced me over askin' about Estraleta as a way of showin' they were in support of that flare-up down across the border—even though they weren't good enough or didn't have the guts to ride down and actually join in."

  "So what do you want me to do with 'em when the lucky gent you only winged gets back from the doctor? You gonna press charges?"

  Kendrick waved a hand. "Nah. Hell with that. Let 'em cool their heels in the clink overnight and then turn 'em loose. Reckon they'll slink back to their ranch and stay tamed down—for a while anyway."

  Brimson regarded the bounty hunter over the rim of his cup as he tipped it up for a loud slurp. When he lowered the cup again, he said, "You're ridin' out after Turpin, ain't you?"

  Kendrick didn't answer right away. He let his gaze slide to the doorway, where the heavy wooden door of the office/jail was propped open to let in a faint, dusty breeze that was beginning to stir as the afternoon started to cool. "Yeah, I reckon I am," he said. "Been my inclination all along, guess there's no sense puttin' it off any longer. Something flat wrong about the way Doc took off, I aim to find out what."

  "Mexico's a mighty big place. How you gonna know where to start?"

  "The woman from the cantina heard Estraleta mention a town—place called Bordados. Figure that's where I'll head, see what I can turn up there."

  The sheriff emitted a low whistle. "Bordados, you say? Jumpin' blazes, man, do you know what that place is?"

  "I've heard the name, heard the talk about it," Kendrick allowed. "But I sorta wrote it off as probably havin' a healthy dose of exaggeration behind it."

  "Maybe so, maybe not." Brimson wagged his head. "But those stories always sounded pretty convincing to me. Lots of bad hombres on the run have suddenly disappeared for long stretches—only to resurface again after the heat on 'em cooled down. If not Bordados, where did they drop off to?"

  The claim—some, like Kendrick, considered it more of a legend—was that Bordados, tucked away in the northern end of the Sierra Madre Mountains, was a haven for the most ruthless fugitives in the Southwest. As long as a desperado, no matter how heinous his crimes, had money to pay the regional Rurales, he could find safety and even protection in Bordados. What's more, while there he could mingle with his own kind and enjoy all the debauchery anyone could imagine. The town had gone from a quiet mountain village—again, according to legend—to a hellhole overrun by wickedness.

  "Don't rightly know about that," Kendrick replied, tapping his emptied coffee cup on the heel of his hand to knock out the remaining loose grounds. "But I reckon I'll have a better idea after I've paid a visit there myself."

  "When you heading out?"

  "First thing in the morning. Now that I've made up my mind to go, I'll be needin' to square up some things with Mr. Keithington over at the bank and then stock up on trail supplies. Even though I got a destination already in mind, I figure to try and pick up Doc's trail and stick on it at least long enough to make sure it looks like I'm aimed the same way he went."

  The sheriff grunted. "Better make plenty of ammunition part of your supplies. Where you're going, you'll likely need it."

  "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

  Brimson stood up and extended his right hand. "Don't know whether you're bein' brave or plumb foolish … But I'll wish you luck all the same."

  Kendrick shook his hand. "Thank you for that. I try not to rely on luck. But that don't mean I ever turn down any that gets offered."

  Chapter Six

  Less than a mile out of New Gleanus, Kendrick cut sign of two riders veering off the main trail to Sells and dropping due south across open country. From a nick in the hind left horseshoe, he recognized one set of hoof prints as belonging to Doc Turpin's big gray. Having ridden alongside it for a number of days, he knew the mark well.

  Due south … in the direction of the Sierra Madres and the town of Bordados.

  The terrain was mostly flat and brushy, studded with cacti and occasional blunt outcroppings of weather-beaten rock. Now and then the ground broke away into shallow, sandy washes, scoured bare and burnt colorless by the relentless sun.

  Kendrick rode out at first light, having purchased his trail supplies and made the necessary arrangements with banker Keithington the prior evening. He'd also squared things with O'Toole, the livery stable proprietor, to ensure his gear and Blockhead, his tall chestnut stallion were ready and waiting for him.

  He set the chestnut to a brisk pace, one he knew the animal could maintain all day. Judging by the spread of the tracks he was following, it was clear Turpin and the girl Estraleta were also traveling at a good clip. Kendrick harbored no illusion that, given their thirty-hour head start, he had any chance of catching up with them. But he nevertheless meant to trim the gap as much as he could, in order to arrive at Bordados as closely on their heels as possible.

  The miles fell away, morning transitioning into afternoon. The sun climbed higher and hotter in the sky. The land grew gradually more rugged, sharp gullies falling away deeper and more frequently, here and there a low purplish butte jutting up from the undulating sea of tan sand, cacti, and brownish green brush.

  Kendrick had ridden this region only infrequently, yet his memory of it was keen. He knew where he was likely to find water, even this far into the summer. That was always a main consideration and one never far from his mind when he traveled these remote stretches of the Southwest. No traveler through this territory had better fail to take into account a water source or their traveling days would come to a bitter end.

  There were a few small towns and rancheros scattered throughout the area but it was evident that Doc and his companion had ridden wide of them so Kendrick did the same.

  In the middle of the afternoon he stopped briefly at a water hole lying cool and clear in the shaded crevice of a split butte. He cooled Blockhead before letting him drink and then fed him a couple handfuls of grain from the feed pack. Leaving the animal to forage a bit for whatever green stubbles it could find amidst the nearby brush, Bodie watered himself and took his time eating a can of stewed tomatoes while absorbing some of the welcome shade. After that he topped off his canteen and water skin, allowed the chestnut to drink a final time, then rode out once more into the blasting sun.

  * * * * *

  It was past sunset when Kendrick stopped again, to make night camp.

  He chose a shallow depression with some tufts of graze running along the slope at one end. The topography of the land had remained basically unchanged but over the past few miles he had noted more traces of green coloration in the brush and even a few sparse patches of stubborn prairie grass poking through here and there. Kendrick knew he was approaching the Rio Grande, calculating he would cross it about mid-day tomorrow.

  Blockhead drank a hatful of water poured from the skin, then Bodie picketed him in the slope grass. For his own needs, he scooped a tub-sized pit in the soft, sandy wall of the depression and there built a small campfire of shrubs and greasewood. He set a pot of coffee to brewing and soon placed a pan of thick-sliced bacon alongside it. With the land quickly giving up its heat now that the sun was gone, the warmth from the fire felt good. The bacon starting to sizzle smelled even better.

  Kendrick had taken the steps to conceal his fire mainly out of habit. He'd seen no sign of another soul—except for those he was following and those presumably occupying the distant town and ranchero structures he had purposely skirted—all day. He hadn't heard anything about Indian trouble in the area for months. But he also knew there was always restless young blood among both the Apaches and Yaquis. One never knew when a handful of them might decide it was time to ride out and raise some hell, especially if they happened across a lone rider. And, particu
larly this close to the border, there was an even more likely chance of bandit scroungers on the prowl for any easy score—a horse, saddle, and guns that could be sold for quick cash; maybe some even quicker cash from a money poke lifted off a dead man.

  It was because of these possibilities that Kendrick took the precautions he did. He hadn't stayed alive this long riding a harsh country on the hunt for even harsher men by being careless.

  When the meal was finished, Kendrick sand-washed his plate and pan and put them away. He poured another hatful of water for Blockhead and let him eat some grain from his palm. There was plenty of graze on the slope but Bodie knew the temperature was going to drop plenty low tonight and the grain would help the animal generate some offsetting internal heat. It was important the chestnut be replenished and nourished for another grueling day tomorrow.

  Wrapped in his bedroll, stretched out beside the dying fire, Kendrick laced a final half-cup of coffee with a generous splash of whiskey from his saddle flask and then sipped it slowly as he settled himself for the night.

  The sky was awash with stars and the air was perfectly still. Kendrick watched a shooting star streak brightly and the night was so quiet he imagined he could hear it sizzle as it burnt itself out.

  * * * * *

  One minute he was asleep, the next second he was wide awake.

  Twenty feet away, Blockhead snorted softly, uneasily. A warning.

  Kendrick's right hand closed around the Colt he'd pulled under the bedroll blankets with him. Otherwise, he stayed perfectly still. Only his eyes moved, restlessly scouring the silver-blue starry illumination for as far as he could see without lifting his head, pausing only to try and penetrate patches of deep shadow, peering for any sign of movement.

  Blockhead chuffed again.

  Somebody—or something—was closing on the camp.

  In addition to the more practical precautions he took, Kendrick's sixth sense for trouble, aided not for the first time by Blockhead's sharp instincts, were also factors that had helped keep him alive out in the wilds.

  Very slowly, Kendrick pushed down his covers. His exhaled breaths puffed visibly in the cold night air. Just past his shoulder, still in its saddle scabbard, lay his Winchester Yellowboy. Next to it rested the double-barreled Greener. His left hand snaked out, gripped the Greener, drew it to him.

  Then Kendrick was still again. Listening. Hard.

  After a minute, with the Greener pressed against his chest to muffle the sound, he slowly thumbed back each of the hammers. Click … Click.

  Total stillness once more. More listening. Everything around him seemed as silent as the vapor drifting up from his nostrils.

  And then a single tiny pebble skittered down the slope of the depression from directly above where he lay … They were right on top of him!

  Kendrick instantly shifted to the flat of his back and extended the Greener at arm's length, taking general aim straight up. He triggered one of the barrels. The brilliance of the muzzle flash and the roar of the discharge seemed to rip open the night. The blast blew away a big chunk of the brushy rim and sent chips of gravel and sand flying. A man screamed.

  Kendrick shoved from his bedroll, rolling over and over as handguns popped, returning fire on where he'd been lying. Bullets tore apart his bedroll and chewed the ground behind him.

  Coming to rest on one knee, Kendrick raised the Greener in his left hand, the Colt in his right. He quickly fired off the second barrel of the Greener, sending its load of double-ought in the general direction of the gun flashes he'd spotted from the pistols firing down on him. Then, dropping the scatter-gun, he pitched to one side—away from the Greener's own distinctive flash—and went into another series of rolls. More bullets cut the air where he had been. When he came up on a knee for a second time, he went to work with the Colt. He could see two figures moving jerkily up on the rim of the depression, silhouetted against the star-filled sky. He fanned four rapid-fire shots and when he rose a moment later, stepping cautiously forward through a thin mist of gunsmoke, there was no further movement from the would-be ambushers.

  Kendrick retrieved his Greener and then paused to quickly reload it as well as the Colt. Carrying both weapons, he climbed to the rim of the depression. There were three bodies lying up there. In the starlight, he had no trouble recognizing the silver-studded chaps and the fancy gun belts—the three vaqueros from the Tequila Rose Cantina. Released from jail, they had followed him. Either to stop him from catching up with Estraleta, or simply to exact revenge for the way he had humiliated them. No way of telling for sure. Unless …

  One of the three was still alive. It was the one Kendrick had shot in the shoulder back in New Gleanus. Now he had taken most of the blast from the Greener's first barrel. He lay on the ground, squirming in agony, pain-etched eyes gazing up as Kendrick came to stand over him.

  "I am torn in two … you have killed me," the man groaned.

  "Overdue," Kendrick muttered. "What I should've done back in New Gleanus."

  "I am dying," the man said. His voice sounded thick and wet as his trembling, blood-soaked hands attempted weakly to push his shredded guts back together.

  "Why?" Kendrick wanted to know. "Why did you come after me?"

  But it was too late. The man's final words turned prophetic as his quaking hands abruptly dropped away, limp and lifeless, and his head lolled to one side in death.

  Chapter Seven

  As expected, Kendrick crossed the Rio Grande the next morning.

  He'd ridden out of his night camp while it was still dark, not wishing to remain with the dead now littering the ground. He'd rounded up the mounts of the fallen vaqueros and chased them away, hopefully in the direction of the ranchero where the three had worked. He made no attempt to bury his victims. He would leave that to others who were likely to come searching when the riderless horses turned up.

  At the river, while still on the Arizona side, Kendrick fixed himself a late breakfast of coffee, hardtack, and a can of sweet peaches. Blockhead grazed on the greenery to be found along the bank. The morning was warming rapidly and Kendrick planned on riding nonstop for the balance of the day, across the border and straight for Bordados. With luck, he figured to reach the village in another two, not more than three days. Said luck would mean not encountering marauding Apaches or Yaquis as he neared the mountains and riding clear of any Rurales patrols, who would be certain to detain and closely question a lone, heavily armed Americano. And water … since he was venturing into unfamiliar territory under blazing conditions, he must always be mindful of being able to access water.

  Although he'd long since convinced himself where Doc and the girl were headed, it still reassured Kendrick when he was able to cut intermittent sign of their passage and confirm that he was traveling on a matching route.

  But late in the afternoon, not long after a shimmering purplish smudge riding tight on the horizon came into view to mark the rise of the Sierra Madres in the distance, Kendrick spotted an unexpected change in the tracks he was following. All of a sudden there were the markings of only one horse … and it wasn't that of Doc's big gray with the nicked shoe.

  Frowning sharply, Kendrick reined Blockhead to a halt and wheeled him around. Scanning the ground intently, he began to slowly backtrack, watching tight for where the change had occurred. After a quarter mile of retracing the way he'd just come, he found it. There were markings where the two horses had stood in one spot for a time, their riders apparently palavering. There were boot prints where the riders had dismounted. And then the tracks of the animal with the nicked shoe veered off and angled away to the southwest while the other set of hoof prints continued on due south.

  Kendrick rode alongside the nicked-shoe prints for about twenty yards, studying the marks carefully. He began to have a pretty good idea what had happened. One of the front hoofs now appeared to be stepping much lighter than the others. The horse had pulled up lame somehow. As a result of this, the riders had split up—Estraleta continuing
on for Bordados, Doc heading off to find a town or village where he could trade mounts and then presumably proceed from there to rejoin her.

  That made Kendrick's choice simple enough: He would stick with following Doc.

  * * * * *

  Shortly before dusk, with the sun only a pinkish glow above the western horizon, Kendrick came in sight of a town. Judging by the spread of twinkling lights, it was a pretty fair sized one. Kendrick sat Blockhead on the crown of a tall hill and looked down on the place as deepening shadows descended and more and more lights blinked on in the windows of the mostly adobe structures.

  The surrounding land had started to change as it transitioned closer to the mountains. Considerably rockier and more rugged now, still basically a treeless expanse of baked sand studded with cacti and brittle brush, but showing increased splashes of green and rising and falling with sharper hills and deeper draws.

  From his vantage point, Kendrick was using a pair of field glasses to study the town. The reasonably tidy assemblage of buildings, including a proud old church with ornately carved doors and a high bell tower, looked like a quiet, peaceful place … with one ominous exception.

  In the center of the plaza, strapped to the bed of a sturdy wagon with three heavily armed Rurale soldiers stationed around it, squatted a gleaming bronze Gatling gun.

  Kendrick grimaced. Damn!

  The one thing he'd been wanting to avoid almost as much as Indians, were the Rurales—the Mexican government's dreaded "Rural Guard", a mounted police force specially formed to keep peace in the country's distant northern reaches, yet whose tactics had gained notoriety for often being as corrupt and brutal as those they were supposed to be policing against. And now here they were, right smack in his path. Where there was a Gatling gun and a guard detail, there surely was at least a twenty-five-man platoon to be found as well. Maybe more, maybe a whole company of seventy-five.