“I can see why.”
Her back stiff, she turned and started for the door.
Gus held his hand out. “Just teasing.”
“You’ll notice I’m not laughing,” she said, and walked away.
That evening, as always, the Fourth Cavalry Regimental Band was a crowd-pleaser. People came from miles around to listen to a special March Program that had everyone tapping their feet to the stirring music. Everyone loved the marches and were on their feet clapping and cheering for several minutes afterward. The conductor and the band stood and took three bows.
More entertainment followed when the Fourth Cavalry’s bugler stepped onstage in his fancy dress uniform and played a familiar bugle call on his shiny bugle.
“El Paso, which one was that?” the bugler called.
“Charge!” the crowd shouted back.
Then came a couple more familiar calls: “Reveille!” and “Taps!”
But the next ones he played were all met with puzzled looks and absolute silence. The bugler laughed. “Never heard those before, have you?” He made a loud, rude blat on his horn. “Those calls were instructions to the horses: Right, Walk Forward, Trot, Gallop, Turn Around, Halt, and Lie Down. In a battle, with all the noise and gunfire, they can’t hear shouted orders. Cavalry horses know these calls and many more! Come out to the post and watch our horses drill. And while you’re out there, if you hear the bugler sound ‘Feeding Time at the Stable,’ get out of the way!”
The audience howled and clapped.
As the Rangers were leaving, the escort driver who had brought them in pushed through the crowd to his group of men and women, military and civilians, waiting for their ride back to Fort Bliss.
“This place was so crowded tonight, I had to use a livery six blocks away,” he said. “Be at least thirty minutes before I get the teams hitched and get back here.”
Ranger Jose Martinez, half Navajo and half Mexican, was Company B’s communication specialist. A short man with a crooked grin, he spoke seven languages, including most of the major Indian ones. He turned and said to the others, “Got an idea. Let’s duck this crowd and walk with him to the livery. My backside’s asleep anyway.”
Elizabeth wheeled around, smiling. Walking to the livery was a great idea. She was having a good time and in no hurry to get back to the post. This was the first time they’d all gone out together. She’d looked forward to this night, to getting Jake away from the Annex and his responsibilities, to just being a normal man for a few hours. The band concert in El Paso that night had been the perfect excuse.
Jake and the teams worked most days. Sometimes they had special assignments, but lately their work in El Paso concentrated on apprehending outlaws and Mexican bandits. Although he oversaw all the groups, he worked with B Company, his old company when he could. Occasionally they trained from dawn to dusk and right through dinner.
Twice, Elizabeth took pity on them and cooked at Jake’s place for the ten of them. After eating, they fell asleep on the couch or on the floor.
She looked over at Gus, still studying the line of carriages in the street. Twice he never left the table after dinner, but instead pushed his plate aside, folded his arms on the table, and laid his head down, asleep in seconds. The only times he’d stayed awake were the nights Suzanne ate with them.
Elizabeth turned to Suzanne, standing alongside her. “Want to walk to the livery with them?”
Gus took Suzanne’s arm. “Sure, she does. She needs the exercise.”
Suzanne jerked her arm away, dark hair flying. “Why don’t you come right out and say it—you think I’m fat!”
“Aw, I do not. I never said that.” A slow, teasing grin crinkled his eyes.
They were at it again, Elizabeth thought as she narrowed her eyes at Gus.
She and Suzanne both wore white skirts that night, Elizabeth with an orange shirt and a matching silk scarf holding her hair back. Suzanne wore dangly earrings and a ribbed pink top out over her skirt. She’d knotted the sleeves of a pink sweater around her waist, partly to hide her hips, Elizabeth thought with a pang.
Suzanne wasn’t fat; she just thought she was. And Gus wasn’t helping.
Jose Martinez and their driver dodged across the street. The rest of the team, Elizabeth, and Suzanne followed, threading between the stopped buggies.
Jake’s hand closed around Elizabeth’s arm as they stepped off the sidewalk and didn’t let go until they were across the street. Gus did the same with Suzanne, who shook him off as soon as they reached the other side.
Their driver turned off busy Second Street onto Tunnel Street at the next intersection, leaving the bright lights of the pavilion and Riverside Park behind. The sidewalk ahead of them was empty, people heading down other streets for the other liveries.
Five years ago, in 1881, when four major railroads laid tracks into El Paso, the little border town mushroomed overnight. The seedier parts of town, like this section of Tunnel Street, hadn’t been upgraded yet. The business section of El Paso now had paved sidewalks with curbs, sewers, electric lights in most stores, and even a few telephones. But not Tunnel Street.
The farther they went down Tunnel, the more dilapidated the neighborhood became. The wooden sidewalks were littered and broken in places. Some storefronts had roll-down metal shades and iron gates in the doorways. Two closed businesses had boards nailed over the windows.
A tall older boy in baggy trousers and a floppy shirt leaned against a lamppost and smirked at the girls as they passed. A green bandanna trailed from a pocket. As they passed, he pulled it out and dusted his hands with it.
Gus made a growl in his throat.
Suzanne glanced up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. The rest of you catch that scarf thing?” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “Stay alert. Could be a signal.”
Halfway down the block, another young man lounged against a building. This one was slightly older, twenty or so. He stood there smoking, watching them. He also wore baggy pants and had a green bandanna, knotted at the back of his neck. He patted his head as they passed.
Chalked words and odd symbols were everywhere, scribbled on walls and doors, even on sidewalks. As Elizabeth studied the chalk pictures, a press release from the newspaper syndicate on the telegraph ran across her mind. It had been an article on the growing number of big-city street gangs in Baltimore, San Francisco, and New Orleans, and how to recognize them.
She squeezed Jake’s arm. “I’m no expert, but some of that writing looks like gang markers to me.”
Jake turned his head slowly from side to side. “This whole setup is strange. It doesn’t fit. Most gangs are obvious in how they advertise themselves. But this I don’t understand. Looks like a child’s scribbling.”
Three doors down, on the other side of the street, someone shifted deeper into a darkened doorway, a flow of black in black. Jose shot his hand out and snapped a downward gesture. Jake repeated the signal for the men behind.
“Jose doesn’t like it, either,” he said.
“Neither do I,” said Gus.
Fred looked over from the other side. “We all picked it up.”
Down the street, five dark figures slipped out of doorways, speaking Spanish. Chains wrapped their fists.
“Uh-oh,” Jake said. He led Elizabeth across in front of him and tucked her close against his left side.
Wide-eyed, Elizabeth looked at him. “Why did you do that?”
“Freeing my right hand in case I need it.”
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. “Gus didn’t move Suzanne.”
“Because he’s left-handed.”
Behind her, she heard Gus quietly telling Suzanne the same. Suzanne looked surprised when he put his arm around her and pulled her close against his right side.
“Suzanne . . .” he started.
“Now what?”
His mouth tightened. “Nothing. Just stay close to me.”
He closed the distan
ce between the two of them and Jake and Elizabeth ahead. Though nothing had been said, Fred Barkley and Bronco Butler, originally from Montana, moved forward, staggering themselves, one on Elizabeth’s exposed left, the other on Suzanne’s right. Each woman was now flanked by two Rangers.
Jose Martinez shoved their driver behind him and stepped out in front of the Ranger group.
“Hola, amigos. Qué pasa?” Jose called to the group of toughs.
A long burst of Spanish came back, accompanied by fist shaking by the older boys blocking the sidewalk. All wore the uniform of baggy pants and floppy shirts with green bandannas. Their leader, a man in his mid-twenties, had a chain tattooed around his neck. He pointed at Elizabeth and shouted.
Never taking his eyes off Chain Man, Jose said to the others, “They say they’re Arroyos. If they are, that’s bad news. Arroyos are junior partners of a big Indian street gang in Mexico City.”
“When they get older, they move up with the big boys,” Gus said. “Guns and street crime. Despite who they say they are, most of these so-called kids are grown men in pretty good condition. They don’t fit the picture.”
“Watch how they move,” Jake said. “They’re erect and straight-backed. It almost looks as if they’re military.”
“What do they want from us?” Gus asked Jose.
“I don’t know yet. I understand their dialect. They’ve pointed back and forth to the girls, but don’t know their names. They’re confused about who’s who.”
“Think they’re after Elizabeth again?” Jake asked, his voice cold.
Jose studied the gang in front of them and shrugged. “Makes as much sense as anything else. Two of the boys have Kali sticks—Filipino fighting sticks—behind them. They may be young, but they’re mean. They say we’re part of the Victors, a rival gang in Juarez. Seems that orange scarf on Elizabeth’s head is the Victors’ color. I don’t believe that. They’re not very convincing. I think it’s just an excuse to attack us.”
Elizabeth snatched the scarf from her head, stuffed it into her skirt pocket.
“Let’s try to talk our way out first,” Jake said to Jose. “Tell them we’re soldiers on our way back to Fort Bliss, that we don’t want trouble from them or anyone else. Tell them also we can hurt them.”
Jose translated, using their Mexican dialect. One shirtless youngster of fourteen or so wore a green necktie flapping down his bony bare chest.
Jake took over. “Fred, Bronco—look after the women and our driver. Gus, Jose, and I will take care of this gang, if it comes to that. We’re not out to prove anything, so hold back. Fists only. No weapons if we can get away with it. Try not to kill anyone. If we do, it’ll make the papers. A few of them are kids; most of them aren’t. They’re all vicious, but to Americans the sixteen-year-olds are still kids.”
“Because they’ve never been shot by a twelve-year-old with a Winchester,” Bronco snapped.
“And we hope to God they never will be,” Gus cut in, “which is why we’re all here, isn’t it?”
Jake’s eyes skipped to Gus and Jose, then back to Bronco. “And the kid who shot you went down almost before you did. Three other Rangers shot him.”
Though he didn’t name names, Elizabeth guessed who two of them were and suspected Jake himself was the third.
His face was tight, expressionless. “Then, it was survival. But not now. The last thing we want is to read in tomorrow’s papers that five Frontier Battalion Rangers killed several Mexican kids at a band concert. We’ll look bad. Fort Bliss is too important to this country to risk it. None of us wants that.”
“The one with the chain tattooed around his neck is no kid,” Bronco shot back, his face set and hard. The easygoing Montana cowboy look had vanished.
“I just caught a glint of steel in the streetlight. At least one of these so-called kids has a knife,” Gus said. “Curious that only the obvious two kids have Kali sticks. Looks like the older ones won’t touch them. If they’re soldiers, they know how to use other weapons.”
The six Arroyos blended with the others. Now ten hostile men blocked the sidewalk. One made a taunting come on gesture with his hands.
Jose took a step forward and spoke quickly in their Mexican Spanish.
He was greeted with hoots and hollers and shouted obscenities in a mixture of Spanish and English.
The kid in the green necktie grabbed the Kali sticks from another boy and moved toward Jose in short little hops. He swung out what looked like shortened broomsticks and started whipping them at Jose.
Instead of moving away, Jose charged, shot his fists between the whizzing bamboo sticks and yanked them away. In close, he spun and threw his elbow into the kid’s face. The young stick fighter squealed and went down, his nose streaming blood over his necktie. Holding his face and whimpering, he crawled away.
“Give me those sticks,” Jake demanded, shoving his hand out to the remaining stick fighter.
Big-eyed, the kid dropped the Kali sticks and backed away.
Jake picked them up and turned to Jose. “Let’s show them what we do with Kali sticks. You game for a little demonstration?”
Rangers were excellent shots—they all were. Galloping across a field, aiming a Winchester and half standing in the stirrups, they simply didn’t miss. Part of their success was familiarity. They knew each other’s minds and reactions and what to expect in a crisis. No surprises.
But things were changing. Many times with outlaws and bank robbers, Rangers found themselves fighting in the streets. And when pistols ran out of ammo or a rifle jammed, they had no choice but to defend themselves with their hands. He’d read about different kinds of one-on-one fighting. Such techniques were used to trip or throw the opponent.
Like Filipino stick fighting.
Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. “Please, Jake, don’t!”
“It’s all right. We practice with these. We never know what we’ll run into,” he said, then looked at the kids, his lip curled in disgust. Sticks up, he advanced toward Jose, who jumped into a fighting stance, one stick across his chest, the other raised.
Jake circled, thrust for Jose’s throat.
Crack. Stick collided with stick. Jose blocked it.
Jake struck up with the lower end, aiming for Jose’s ribs.
Crack. Blocked again.
The street fell strangely silent. In the greenish glow of the streetlight, bamboo Kali sticks whined in the air. Jose let out a high, warbling Navajo scream and lunged at Jake. He swung one of the sticks, whistling down for Jake’s head.
Crack.
Another bloodcurdling shriek and a slanting blow aimed at Jake’s waist.
Crack.
Every time Jose screamed, Elizabeth flinched. With a sense of dread, she watched, fearing the injury one blow from those sticks could cause. For several minutes, Jake and Jose lashed and struck, almost too fast for the eye to follow.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The Arroyos cast furtive glances at each other.
At some unspoken signal, Jake and Jose tossed the sticks to Bronco and Fred. Both men snatched them out of the air. From their expressions and how they held the sticks, clearly they also knew how to use them.
Jake spoke, his voice calm. “Jose, tell them to get out of our way.”
Suzanne screamed and stumbled.
Chain Man, knife in hand, darted in behind Gus and jerked Suzanne away. Holding the knife at her throat, he yanked her against him. Gus spun around, grabbed for her, and got a fistful of empty air. He caught the tail of her pink sweater instead and whipped it off.
Suzanne fought the man, grabbing at the metal chain around his neck.
Winding the sweater around his forearm, Gus leaped forward and slammed a shoulder into Chain Man, who was trying to escape with Suzanne. Chain Man stumbled, giving Gus a brief opening to snatch away the knife. Gus shot a hand in front of Suzanne’s neck and grabbed the man’s wrist. Shoving the knife hand high in the air, he shouted at Suzanne to run.
Suzanne twisted and broke away.
As she did, Elizabeth was rushed by two older gang members. Jake had been waiting for them. The first one he stopped cold with a punch to the face and a kick to the ribs; the second one he threw against a building. They both backed away.
Chain Man slashed at Gus repeatedly, but was blocked by the sweater-padded arm. Seizing the man’s wrist in a crushing grip, Gus forced him to the ground. The man went down kicking and punching and trying to squirm away. Gus stomped his outstretched leg. With a hoarse scream, the man dropped the knife and collapsed on the sidewalk.
Gus picked up the knife and stared at the rest of the gang.
They also were backing away.
Elizabeth threw her arms around Suzanne and hugged her. Over her shoulder she saw Chain Man writhing on the sidewalk.
Gus turned and put his arms around both women. A moment later he tipped Suzanne’s head up. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
He glanced back at Chain Man, who was moaning and holding his leg. “We’ll find a doctor after we’re out of here,” Gus said.
Neither Gus nor Jake was winded. Each man on the team was calm and controlled, as if nothing had happened.
Elizabeth stared at Jake, seeing him in a different light. He’d tried to negotiate around a confrontation, using violence only when forced to. An echo from the past stirred in the back of her mind. Much as she’d loved him, Carl was the opposite. At the first sign of trouble, he would have waded in, fists up.
“Let’s finish up here,” Jake said. At that moment, his face could have been carved from stone.
Hands flexing, shoulders loose, Jake, Jose, and Gus walked slowly toward the rest of the Arroyos.
The gang members looked at the grim faces of the men approaching them and scattered, yelling, bumping into each other, tripping in their haste to get away. Across the street and down the sidewalk, they ran hard in all directions.
It was over.
Ten minutes later in front of the livery, where Tunnel Street had proper sidewalks, Gus bent down and broke the knife blade in a sidewalk joint. He threw the handle into a trash container and the blade pieces down a sewer.
River to Cross, A Page 16