Dark Shadow

by Roy F. Chandler

  Logan ordered the boy up the hill, and the youth went uncomplaining. Logan used the rock to dismount and coached the youth in proper saddling and loading of the mule. When his equipment was right, Logan felt a little better. He had the boy mount the mule, and they headed for the rivulet Logan had seen. Like the mule, the gentle burro came along.

  While the animals drank, Logan tried to examine his wounds, but there was nothing he could do. Washing would only start bleeding, and he had no bandages. He could replace his bloodied and ripped shirt, but he had only one other, and he did not relish the thought of waving his arms and shoulders about.

  Logan asked, "Is Senor Seer at the hacienda?"

  The boy's voice trembled. "Si Senor."

  Logan added unnecessarily, "Then we will go there."

  They had ridden a little way before the boy spoke. "Senor, the gate will not be opened. Senor Seer has ordered it closed, and Paco the gatekeeper will not let you in."

  Logan rode thinking about it. The wall of the hacienda grew closer, and he saw figures on a roof. A moment later they disappeared and Logan wondered if he could raise a rifle if he saw anyone in the wall towers, but the walls stayed empty.

  Perhaps Seer had warned his protectors about the long shooting rifle. Juan of one eye had said that only he believed in Logan's appearance, but the gate was closed and it was not going to be opened. Somebody in there expected someone unfriendly, and Logan guessed he was the one.

  While he was still out of common shooting range, Logan handed the mule's lead rope to the boy and directed him to stay about where he was until called for. The youth took the mule and his burro aside and sat down to watch. See what? Logan had no plan. Even the thought of dismounting to try the gate pained him.

  Watching as best he could, Logan rode up to the gate. In close, the great door looked as strong as the walls, but the thinner wood of the small entrance had shrunk and warped, and Logan could see the hinges and the iron drop bar through the cracks.

  He pounded the wood with his carbine butt and called for the keeper. There was no answer, and no one peered from a corner tower to see who demanded entrance.

  Painfully, Logan sheathed the Spencer and placed the heavy Sharps across his thighs. He dropped the lever and removed the man killer bullet. He replaced the explosive round with a solid from his pocket and snapped the action closed.

  Logan gritted his teeth and shouldered the rifle. The muzzle wove a dizzy circle, but he fought it still and fired quickly. The recoil hurt, but Logan lowered the rifle to his saddlebow and reloaded. His aim had been true. His heavy bullet had blown away the iron bar, and the small door swung half open on its hinges.

  What next? Leap from the saddle and burst through the entrance? Into a hail of rifle fire, that would be certain, and he could not do any leaping, anyway. He had come this far, and although his body complained, Logan guessed he could do more.

  Wesley Seer had believed he was as brave as the next man, but the implacability of Joshua Logan curdled his guts. That Logan had followed them completely across Mexico measured the man's determination. Clearly, only death would stop him.

  Seer had confidence in Juan of one eye. The Yaqui was himself implacable, but during the night, rapid gunshots had been reported in the nearby hills, it could mean that Juan had finished Logan, but why Juan of one eye, who had intended to use his knife, would be firing a gun was not explainable. Seer felt his belly knot tighter, and he ordered that the gate remain closed. He placed his two guards where their rifles covered the courtyard, then he went to prepare his keep against any attempted intrusion.

  There were two entrances through the six foot thick walls of the Keep, and each was closed by an oak door sheathed in iron. The doors opened outward so that when closed they were braced against masonry. There were no outside handles, and the ponderous doors would be nearly impossible to force.

  The keep’s lower door opened into the courtyard itself, and Seer barred that entrance heavily. Three massive oak beams dropped into iron brackets bolted through the door. The beam-ends slid into the walls with overlaps that would defy any breaking away, and their thickness and bulk nearly doubled the iron bound door's strength.

  The second entrance was one floor above. It opened onto a gallery within the housing wing where stairs led to the keep's flat roof. The upper entrance was protected in the same manner as the ground floor doorway, but Seer was not yet ready to retreat to his final stronghold.

  No further shooting was heard or reported, but Wesley Seer knew that something evil was happening. He could think of no one on the hacienda who had a weapon capable of fast shooting. Who then? And where was Juan of one eye? Seer could not sleep and anxiously awaited the dawn.

  Except that the big gates did not open, hacienda life began with the dawn. Servants who lived beyond the walls entered and departed. Cooks prepared meals, and routines continued as if the gates were wide and their Patron was not pacing in worry.

  Of course, servants knew everything, and only days after Senor Seer's return the name Sombra Preta was passed around. Senor Seer and Juan of one eye had fought the mysterious killer Sombra Preta, and the Yaqui fighter had lost his hand. Others who had ridden with Senor Seer did not return at all, and their women were in mourning. The men, it was told, had been killed by Sombra Preta.

  It was difficult to discover more because the Senor and Juan of one eye talked only with each other and the brothers Tomas and Tomasito, but words were overheard, and rumors passed as imaginations labored. Sombra Preta was a gringo with a magical gun that could shoot whatever could be seen. Sombra Preta was ancient and probably a relative of the devil himself.

  Sombra Preta was coming. Juan of one eye had declared it, and only days earlier the one eye had gone to kill the terrible Sombra Preta. Juan of one eye had not returned, and now there was shooting in the hills. Sombra Preta was near and perhaps coming to the hacienda.

  Beads were said and crucifixes gripped. Senor Seer would fight Sombra Preta, but the servants were not armed and were not fighters. They would look to themselves, and standing against devils was not in their planning.

  When daylight became strong, Seer retired to his rooftop to study the land around him. Until he saw Logan well out on his road, Seer stayed low because Dark Shadow could already be out there waiting for a shot from some unbelievable distance.

  Logan was more than a mile away, but Wesley Seer had no doubt who the rider was. His telescope brought the figures closer, and sure enough, there was a gringo with two rifles who could only be Joshua Logan riding in as if he were making a friendly visit. Seer called his Yaqui guards and allowed them to study the approaching figure. Neither brother was impressed.

  "He is only one, Senor Seer." Tomas did not sound concerned, and that worried Wesley Seer.

  Tomasito was more to the point. "Sombra Preta's special gun will not help him, Senor. When he comes close we will shoot him. Until then, he will see no one."

  Seer hoped it would be that way, but he wished Juan of one eye would appear. The night shooting worried him greatly, and the thought nagged that Joshua Logan had won the fight, and the one eye now lay dead only a pair of miles to the west.

  They left the exposed roof and went to a second floor window in a sleeping wing from where, unseen in the shadows, they could watch Logan almost until he reached the wall.

  Tomas said, "The man is wounded, Senor Seer. One side is soaked in blood."

  "What!" Seer snatched the telescope. It was true. Joshua Logan's right side was black with what appeared to be dried blood, but the man still rode and looked as strong as ever. As if he were immortal and unstoppable, Sombra Preta rode directly to the hacienda gate, and within moments Seer heard him thumping the entrance with his rifle butt.

  When Logan's bullet smashed loose the small gate, Seer's guards snarled like panthers, and positioned themselves to cover the gate and the open walls. If Joshua Logan appeared anywhere, rifle bullets would kill him instantly.

  Wesley Seer had his own
rifle in hand, but he had another duty. He summoned his best rider and instructed him to reach the stables outside the walls, to saddle the swiftest mount, and to ride for help at Guaymos.

  The vaquero, held close for just such message carrying, had his own way out, and servants lowered him from a window high in a sleeping wing. The vaquero sped across open space and into the adjoining stables. From near the front gate, Joshua Logan heard his horse pound away. Could the rider be Pun to making a run for it? Logan could only hope that it was not.

  Even if he stood on his horse, the courtyard wall was too high for grasping. Whoever had built Punto's fortress had meant business. If the hacienda's defenders were smart, they would lurk on the inside firing step and shoot down onto him. Logan had no defense against such an attack, and he half expected it would come.

  For lack of a better plan, Logan walked his horse to the corner of the wall. The departing horseman had come from somewhere out of sight, and there could be some sort of a back entrance to the house.

  Logan peered cautiously around the corner of the wall. Above him, the protruding watchtower threatened, but he could only ignore it. There was activity further along, and Joshua Logan believed his luck had risen.

  The people of the hacienda were escaping. A window in the building side had been opened, and a ladder of great length had been lowered from within. People were working their way down the ladder and quickly trotting to the cover of outbuildings, just as they would from a fire within, Logan supposed.

  Their way out would be his way in, but if a rifleman or a shotgunner urged them on from above, Joshua Logan would be the easiest of targets. Hell, someone could safely drop a heavy weight on him, and that would just as certainly be his end.

  Logan's heart quailed a little, but he had another detail to worry about. Logan was not sure his beaten down body could make the climb. As he walked his horse closer, Logan decided he had no other choice. He would try. An older woman on the ladder saw him coming and slid down the slanting poles like a young boy. Her frightened eyes struck his as she whirled away, running with skirts held high to the safety of the nearest outbuilding.

  A youth who could be the twin of the boy holding his mule was also part way down. Logan waved him on, and the boy came his features resigned to whatever miseries awaited him.

  Logan dismounted with difficulty and held onto his saddlehorn until a wave of dizziness passed. He handed his reins to the youth and ordered him to take the horse around front and to wait with the mule until he called for them. The youth hurried away, obviously relieved, and Logan wondered what stories Punto had told about him.

  Logan looked up at the window, and faces were quickly pulled from sight. If an enemy waited, Logan knew he was already dead, but he slung his Spencer, gripped the ladder with the arm that raised easily, and started up. His technique was a step up, bring the other foot alongside, and then repeat. The method was ponderously slow, and Logan expected those inside the building were rushing to tell Punto that his enemy was coming, but Logan could only keep climbing.

  Within, there was confusion. The devil was coming, but the devil had not harmed the woman or the boy. Perhaps they should stay out of it. But, they should warn Senor Seer, only the Senor had gone to the strong room and perhaps barred the great doors. They should then call Tomas or Tomasito. Which should it be? Two messengers were sent, but minutes had been lost, Sombra Preta was near the ladder top, and the people themselves had barely time to flee.

  When his head neared the window ledge, Logan unslung the Spencer, cocked the hammer, and tried to keep the rifle pointed at the window opening.

  Grotesque! If he held onto the carbine, he could not get a grip on the ladder to balance himself. Risking ripped open wounds, Logan forced his torn side to work. Ignoring pain that made his breath whistle he raised his bad arm. His hand gripped and held, and his head rose enough to see into the barely lighted room.

  There was no one there. He looked again, but the faces that had peered down at him were gone. Gratefully, Logan swung a leg across the window sill and placed it inside. He covered the room with his rifle, and slid around to work the rest of his body inside.

  Boots pounded somewhere close, and Logan tried to hurry himself. A voice cursed and another ordered quiet. Still halfway in, Logan aimed his Spencer at the only open doorway. A figure appeared, and Logan saw the shape of a rifle. He fired into it, and the silhouette seemed frozen in place. Working his action and thumbing the hammer took forever, but Logan got another bullet into the figure before it disappeared.

  Logan rolled himself into the room and onto the wooden floor. He landed hard, but forced himself to keep rolling. He struck unseen furniture and struggled to twist his body into a shooting position.

  Beyond the doorway there was shouting, and a voice cursed. Someone groaned hollowly, and rifle fire poured into Logan's room. The rifleman was shooting blind, hoping to force Logan from cover or to score a lucky hit, but Logan had moved, and the shots were wide of their mark. Bullets chipped around the window frame, and one struck something metal and ricocheted with a hornet-like whine.

  To Logan's straining senses, the rifle seemed to hold a hundred cartridges, but finally it went silent. Expecting a rush, Logan raised his carbine, but the wild shooting began again. How many repeating rifles did they have out there?

  Crouched low, a figure sprang cat-like into the room. Its rifle spouted flame, and the muzzle swung quickly to where Logan sprawled.

  Joshua Logan did not rush his shot. His enemy was weaving to make a difficult target, but Logan could almost touch the man with his barrel. Logan pointed high on his attacker's body, high where the heart and lungs were. His carbine fired, and Logan lost the shooter behind powder smoke. He operated the lever and recocked while slithering to one side. A bullet smashed into the furniture beside him, but he saw his target.

  Logan again fired into the man and believed his enemy was down on his knees. God, couldn't anyone be killed around here? The attacker fired, and Logan felt his leg jerk, but there was no immediate pain. He could see the shooter's head against the lighter window, and Logan placed his bullet into it. This time the figure collapsed, and Logan heard his rifle clatter away.

  Logan again rolled himself. He came up against a sidewall and appreciated having something solid against his back. His body seemed dipped in liquid fire, and even as he noticed, pain started in his freshly wounded leg.

  He would look later. First he had to reload. How many times had he fired? Logan could not remember, but the Spencer had to be well down. He fumbled his cartridge box open, got out a full tube, ejected the almost empty one, and with relief slid in the seven loaded cartridges.

  Now he listened. The building was tomb silent, but after a moment there were voices outside with calling back and forth. If more enemy were gathering, Logan supposed he should find a better position. At least he could be in a different spot where they might not expect him.

  Standing cost him, but on his feet he felt better. Logan spared the man he had downed only a glance. Each bullet would have killed. Logan was surprised to have needed a second much less the third. He tried to reach the doorway quietly but doubted he would fool anyone listening. The smart way to peer around a wall or through a doorway was to get down close to the floor where a weapon would not be pointing, look fast, and get back to safety. Too hard. Logan just poked his head around.

  A burly Indian lay on his back with one knee lifted. The man was dead, and Logan guessed he was the one who had first tried to enter the room. Near the doorway a Winchester rifle lay discarded with its action open. The one who had come in had emptied that gun and used most of another.

  Punto's men were well armed, and Logan wondered if there were more. Juan had mentioned two. If these were the bodyguards perhaps only Punto was left. Logan measured his strength and guessed there had better not be anyone else to fight. He felt as if a child could knock him over.

  He limped onto a gallery that overlooked the courtyard. As he watched, a
woman clutching a bundle scurried across the open and slipped through the door Logan had blown open. Good, the fewer innocents around the better.

  First, he would examine his wounds. He would also find water because he was suffering an incredible thirst. Then, Dark Shadow would begin his hunt for Punto, the last raider.

  24

  Logan moved room to room with all of the care he could muster. The upper floor offered stairs leading to the roof, but Logan doubted anyone was up there. He would leave the roof until last.

  Separating the house wings was a huge adobe wall with a single doorway let into it. The door was iron sheathed and somehow fastened. Without a handle to grasp, Logan could not test it. Therein, he suspected lay Punto’s strong room, and how in hell would he get into the place?

  Along the gallery an earthen water olla promised relief. Drinking gourds hung alongside, and Logan's hands trembled with eagerness as he tipped the vessel to pour.

  The ecstasy was familiar. He had experienced it when he had dipped into the Apache Water weeks before. Logan guzzled the cool water and ducked his head beneath the olla's spout. For the instant an enemy would have had an easy mark, but vigor returned in a rush.

  Logan whipped his face dry and enjoyed another satisfying drink. More, and he would slosh like a half-filled keg, but he felt able to face whatever lay ahead.

  He found no one on the ground floor, but there was food in a large kitchen. A huge bean pot bubbled on a stove back, and there was bread and more water. In a cellar off the kitchen there was wine in bottles and barrels. Logan ate directly from the bean bowl, swilling water, rushing himself, but recognizing that he had not eaten since the previous day. His leaned-down body held few reserves at any time, and after having bled during the night he needed anything that would give him energy.

  There was a second iron door on the ground floor, and Logan decided that Punto had to be holed up within. He felt certain there would be no outside the walls entrance, so unless he could find an entrance on the roof that led into the chambers, reaching the raider was going to require imaginative efforts.