by Ralph Cotton
Ria watched as the Ranger lowered the telescope, collapsed it between his palms and stuck it back behind his saddle.
“But could it be wild horses, even elk?” she asked, not wanting to consider that it might be Indians.
“Could be, but I doubt it,” Sam replied, not wanting to spend any time discussing probabilities. He reined his dun to the right, leading the mule cart toward the slope of the hill line alongside them, less than a mile away. “Let’s ride up into the rocks and keep moving.”
“It is Apache!” Ria said with a slight gasp of fear in her voice. She reined the barb horse quickly and sidled it closer to the Ranger.
“No,” Sam said, “Apache don’t make dust on their trail if they can keep from it—especially when the Mexican government has scalp hunters killing them for bounty. Apache ride wide of anything soft enough to leave a track, or loose enough to stir dust.” He nudged the dun forward.
“You know a lot about the Apache?” Ria asked as they rode along, the girl sitting watching them from her perch.
“No, ma’am,” Sam said sidelong to her. “Just enough to keep me alive, so far.” He glanced back out and once again saw a thin curtain of dust rise and drift. “I have learned to do the two main things they do out here—keep quiet and stay out of sight.”
They crossed the short stretch of flatland separating them from the hill line and put their horses and mule cart upward onto a path that meandered and weaved its way among chimney rock and large boulder. For the better part of an hour they climbed the path until it widened into a trail running along the hillside three hundred feet above the flatlands. The lank mule pulled the cart along steadily, confidently; yet Sam knew the steepness of the hillside would not allow the cart to move any farther up its rigid spine. This was terrain for the sure of hoof, the nimble of foot. The land held no forbearance for man’s wheeled endeavor.
“We need to walk,” he said to Ria and Ana, the three of them having stopped in the shadowed cover of a cliff overhang. “There’s likely an easier trail father up, but we’ll never make it with the cart.”
“Then—then you think we must leave the cart behind?” Ria asked.
“No, ma’am,” Sam said, swinging down from his saddle. “We’ll keep moving right along on this lower trail. Whoever’s riding toward us, at least we know they’re there. We’ll listen and watch for them. If we need to, we’ll lie low and let them pass without seeing us.”
Ria swung down from the barb; Ana stood up off from her board and started to climb over the side of the cart. Seeing the Ranger step over toward the mule cart, Ria rushed past him and reached up and helped Ana down before he got the chance. Realizing the woman’s distrust of him toward her daughter was still there, Sam stepped wide of the two and took hold of the mule’s harness and steadied the cart.
As Ana collected herself and brushed her black hair back from her face, Ria gave the Ranger an apologetic look.
“Forgive me, Ranger,” she said. “I am still fearful for my very young daughter, as you can see. Even though you have done so much for us, it is hard for me to let go—”
“Ma’am, you needn’t apologize,” Sam said, cutting her off. He turned loose of the mule and rubbed its coarse, bony muzzle. The mule twitched its scarred ears and stared straight ahead.
“Gracias, Ranger,” Ria said, her arm around Ana’s thin shoulders, “for understanding so much.”
“You’re both welcome,” Sam said, a little embarrassed. He nodded and looked back and forth between the two of them. “Let’s keep moving,” he added, taking the reins to his dun and the mule cart. “Keep as quiet as we can.” He drew horse and mule cart along with one hand, his Winchester in the other.
They had moved along in silence for another half hour when he heard the faint clack of hoof against stone on the trail ahead of them. Motioning the women and the two horses off the edge onto the rocky hillside, Sam pulled the mule cart behind a boulder and stood watching from cover as a Mexican guidon banner fluttered into sight above rocks six feet tall.
Good enough. . . .
Sam breathed deep, relieved. He reached his sombrero out and waved it up and down as a federale front scout rode into sight around a mound of large rocks piled up behind a huge boulder.
“Hello the trail,” he called out.
The scout, startled, jerked his horse’s reins hard, causing the animal to rear slightly before he settled it.
“Come out, show yourself!” he demanded toward the Ranger’s sweat-stained sombrero. “Raise your hands high and keep them high!” he added as if in afterthought.
Sam leaned his Winchester against the rock and loosened his Colt in its holster out of habit. He placed his sombrero back atop his head.
“Coming out,” he said, sidestepping slowly into sight, his hands raised above his hat brim. “I’m Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack. I’m here tracking a wanted man.”
The uniformed scout jumped down from his saddle and started walking forward, his big French revolver already drawn and cocked toward the Ranger. Behind him, Sam saw the red, white and green guidon come around the rocks, a Mexican captain and his sergeant riding abreast of the man carrying it. Seeing Sam in the trail, the captain and sergeant halted; the captain raised a gloved hand. Beside him the sergeant called out to the two columns of following horsemen.
“Surround this man,” the captain told his sergeant, still surprised at the Ranger appearing as if out of nowhere.
As Sam watched with his hands high, the sergeant led the two columns forward and formed a half circle around him. The scout stood with his revolver still aimed at Sam’s head. Sam looked all around at the circling soldiers.
“Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack,” he repeated, seeing the captain ride forward slowly and stop his horse in front of the surrounding soldiers.
“I find this one hiding behind the rock, Capitán Penza,” the scout pointed out quickly.
“I called out to you,” Sam said. “I identified myself.”
The scout started to say more, but the captain silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“I saw him call out to you, Corporal,” he said to the lying scout. He gave the soldier an angry glance. The soldier stepped back and shut up. Captain Penza turned and looked at the badge on Sam’s chest. “What are you doing here, Ranger? Have you run out of outlaws to hunt down in your Arizona Territory?”
A ripple of laughter rose from the men. The captain gave a smug grin.
“No, Captain,” Sam said. “I’m on the trail of an assassin who’s traveling with scalp hunters your country has a contract with. He had a hand in killing the sheriff in Mesa Grande.”
“Oh . . . ?” The captain’s interest piqued right away at the mention of the scalp hunters. Sam took note of it as Penza continued. “These mercenaries—scalpers as you call them—are wild and dangerous, very hard to control,” he said, shaking his head. “They brought in Apache receipts to me yesterday at Iron Point. Is the assassin you seek among them?”
“I believe he is, Captain,” Sam said. “But I also want to show you what I brought along to prove that your mercenaries are not only killing Apache but scalping anybody they can whose hair is black enough.”
“What do you bring me?” the captain said. He straightened in his saddle and looked all around as if searching the rocks.
“It’s in a mule cart back there,” Sam said, lowering his hands a little, gesturing behind the rock. “I’ve got a rifle leaning there too.” He gestured a hand toward the rocks on the hillside. “There are two women I sent to hide in the rocks, until I saw who it was coming.”
The captain looked at his sergeant seated on his horse beside him, then back at the Ranger.
“Very well, Ranger,” he said. “Bring out the two women . . . then show us what proof you bring to me. If my nation’s laws are being broken, I will see to it these scoundrels pay.”
*
* *
In moments the mule cart and the horses stood on the trail. The two women shied back from the soldiers and tried to keep out of sight around the rear corner of the cart. Sam told the mounted captain about the two assassins, how one of them was Erskine Cord, the one who had held the contract with the Mexican government. He told him how Cord’s nephew had broken out of jail and gotten away. Yet, assassination and jailbreak aside, the captain’s main concern seemed to be that the scalpers had scalped innocent Mexicans and harmless Indians along both sides of the border.
“And this is the best proof I can give you, Captain Penza,” Sam said. He upended a burlap sack and let Mickey Cousins’ half-scalped head fall to the ground. He righted the face upward with the toe of his boot for the captain to take a better look.
“Santa Madre . . . ,” the captain said. He crossed himself and looked at his sergeant for verification.
The sergeant stepped down from his saddle and stood over the severed head.
“Yes, mi Capitán,” he replied grimly, staring down at the blood-streaked head in the dirt. “I have known Mickey Cousins for a long time. . . . This is him.” He looked at the Ranger. “The white streak is missing from his hair. But I saw one of the scalps—I mean receipts—with a white streak in it.” He shook his head. “It looked familiar, but I never imagined it to belong to this man. Mickey Cousins was a good scout.”
“Yes, I too recall a receipt that had a white streak in it,” the captain remarked, pondering the half-scalped head. Mickey Cousins’ eyes were barely parted and seemed to stare up at him. “Who cut off his head off?” he asked Sam.
“I did that,” Sam said. “I had no choice. At the time we had a badly wounded man with us. Wolves were getting bolder at the smell of his blood. I had to leave either Mickey Cousins’ body or the wounded man behind. I knew if I started shooting at the wolves with a rifle, Apache would ride in from every direction.”
“It is a wise thing you do, Ranger,” the captain said. “Where is this wounded man?”
“He’s dead and buried back alongside the trail,” Sam said, jerking his head in that direction. “There’s a couple of Lipans dead back at the water hole too,” he added. “I expect the desert wolves have eaten well this whole trip.” He looked at the captain, sensing that something was bothering him. But he had no idea what it could be.
“And now you are continuing on to Iron Point,” the captain asked him, “even though the mercenaries will no doubt be gone by the time you arrive?”
“I’m on their trail until I get the man I’m looking for,” Sam said. “I’m also taking these women there where it’s safe, so they can rest up and be on their way. Are you headed back to Iron Point now?”
“Yes, right away,” said Captain Penza. “I must stop these scalpers and see to it they pay for their crimes.” He gestured down at Mickey Cousins’ head. “This in itself is enough reason to hang them. There is no way of knowing how many other innocent people have died at their hands.”
Sam watched him. Yes, something had the man troubled, he was certain of it.
“I’m obliged if we can ride back with you,” he said. “It would make the women feel better having more guns around.”
For a moment the captain appeared to have a hard time considering the Ranger’s request. Finally he said, “No, I am sorry, Ranger, that is out of the question.”
Out of the question?
Sam noted that even the sergeant looked a little taken aback by his captain’s words.
“It would slow us down too much,” Penza offered, seeing the look in both his sergeant’s and the Ranger’s eyes. “We must hurry to catch these men.” He looked at the sergeant, then back at the Ranger.
Sam stepped in close, keeping his words just between himself and the captain.
“These women are going to be in great danger if we should happen to run into Apache between here and Iron Point,” he said. “The scalpers have the Wolf Hearts and every other band worked into a frenzy.”
“I realize this is true,” the captain said. “And I will leave some soldiers to escort you and the women, of course. But I must keep moving and ride quickly in order to catch these murderers. The soldiers will see to it you and the women take your time and get there safely, even though it will take longer.”
It dawned on the Ranger that the captain didn’t want him getting to the scalpers first. Why? he asked himself, looking into the captain’s troubled eyes.
“On second thought, that won’t be necessary, Captain,” he said. “I believe if we stay off the main trails and keep in the hills as much as we can, we’ll be all right.” As he spoke he slid a look at the sergeant, who still looked surprised at the captain’s actions.
“Very well, suit yourself, Ranger,” Captain Penza said, taking on a rigid tone. He turned to the sergeant and said, “Turn this patrol around. We ride back to Iron Point immediately.”
“Sí, Capitán,” the sergeant said, snapping to attention. He turned to his horse and stepped up into his saddle.
“Wait,” Sam said as the sergeant settled into his saddle. He stepped forward, rolled the severed head back into the burlap feed sack, picked it up and walked to the sergeant’s horse. “Don’t forget Cousins,” he said.
The sergeant looked to the captain for permission to take the feed sack. When the captain nodded, the sergeant took the sack and passed it along to the soldier nearest him. Then he nodded at the Ranger and straightened in his saddle. Sam stepped back to the horses and the mule cart and stood beside the women as the patrol turned around on the trail and rode away.
“So, we continue on our own alone,” Ria said warily as the patrol rode out of sight around the rocks, the guidon leading the way.
“We’ll be all right, ma’am,” he said. “The way they’re announcing around every turn, we might be better off without them.” He reached around before Ria could stop him and lifted Ana up onto the side of the cart. Fear flashed across Ria’s face. But then she settled and looked relieved when the Ranger turned the young woman loose. Ana scrambled the rest of the way up over the side of the cart and climbed up onto her makeshift seat.
“Sí, Ranger,” Ria said. “You have brought us this far. I know you will take us to safety.”
Chapter 6
Before daylight Turner Pridemore and his men had assembled and readied their horses behind the town livery barn. They stood hidden in the purple, shadowy darkness still watching Captain Penza and his sergeant lead the twenty-four-man patrol ride out of Iron Point. Beside Pridemore stood his son, Fox, and Ozzie Cord, the two still weaving from all the whiskey they’d poured down their gullets less than two hours earlier.
When the soldiers had ridden out of sight, Pridemore looked the two drunken young men up and down. He shook his head in disgust and turned to Darton Alpine.
“Keep these two here, Dart,” he whispered. “They’re no good on the trail.”
Alpine also looked the two up and down, seeing Ozzie stagger in place and almost fall.
“I’ve got four guards we have to kill here,” he said in a lowered voice. “Are these two up to it?”
“They best be,” said Pridemore, “else I’ll bullwhip all the hide off Fox’s back and feed this one’s eyes to a buzzard.” He studied Alpine closer with a questioning gaze. “Maybe I’m putting more on you and Chase than the two of yas can handle?”
“Don’t worry about nothing. Malcolm and I have this place covered. Right, Malcolm?” Alpine replied quickly, looking around at the burly buckskin-clad scalper standing nearby.
“We got it under control, Bigfoot,” said the veteran mercenary, Malcolm Chase. He carried a long saber wound down the length of his right jaw. He held a two-pound ironmonger’s hammer in his thick fist, fastened to his wrist with a leather strap. “Once I crack a man’s nut, it’ll still be cracked when he crosses Jordan.”
“Good,” said Pridemore.
“There’s four of them and six of you, not counting Fox and Ozzie. I better not come back and hear any excuses.” He looked at the older scalper, Deacon Sickles. “Did you take care of things, Deacon?”
Sickles stood rolling down his wet buckskin shirtsleeves, his big knife in hand.
“I did,” he replied.
Pridemore nodded, then gestured toward Fox and Ozzie. “It they don’t sober up and get into the spirit of things, tie them up and throw them in the barn. I’ll deal with them when I get back.” He looked toward the other men gathered in the shadows, waiting beside their horses, holding their reins.
“Let’s get to it,” he said, taking his horse’s reins from an outheld hand.
Alpine looked around at the men he’d be working with as Pridemore and fifteen of the mercenaries mounted quietly and rode away. He gave Deacon Sickles a grin in the shadowy darkness.
“How does it feel, Sickles, going from riding alone to riding with a whole damn army?” he said.
“Comforting,” the older scalper said. “Even more so when I’m rubbing money agin my leg.” He patted his empty trouser pocket.
“It’ll come soon enough,” said Alpine. “Bigfoot is a leader with vision.”
“I sensed it right off,” said Sickles.
Alpine looked around at the other faces watching him, waiting for his orders. Aside from Sickles and Malcolm Chase, there stood a newer scalper named Ed Adams and his half-breed Cherokee sidekick, Philbert Ohiola—Ohio Phil to the men. Phil wore a tall, bent and battered silk top hat atop a head that he kept shaved for safety’s sake. He carried an old iron-head trade hatchet shoved down behind his belt. Next to Adams and Ohio Phil stood a scalper named Ian Pusser, who had ridden off and on with Erskine Cord’s mercenaries from the group’s origin.
Alpine gestured a hand to the east, ushering the men’s attention to the sliver of silver light mantling the horizon.
“Any minute now the sun is going to lift its lid,” he said quietly yet firmly. “When it does I want a man behind every one of the four guards.” He looked from face to face. “When you hear me give off a crow call, kill them quick and quietlike and leave them where they lay. Once the sun’s up and they’re all dead, we’ll gather in the street and let this town know who’s in charge.”