Lamas turned his ear to listen to the music again. No one looking or in sight on this side porch. He slipped in the corral, caught his bay horse and quickly saddled him. He needed to ride into the border town and speak to Juanita. He mounted and rode off softly in the night, so only the very sensitive would even realize his absence.
Close to her casa, Lamas rode along the creek where the starlight filtered through the cottonwood leaves that rustled on the gentle night breeze. The walls of her place in sight, he dismounted and tied the horse. He wanted the bay to be there in case he was forced to leave quickly. Then, being careful not to stumble over a bed of flat cactus and fill his fine kidskin boots with painful needles, he carefully picked his way along to the back entrance.
He smiled when his hand touched the strip of velvet cloth on the thick wooden gate. It was safe. Her man was gone. He shoved the bar across and entered the courtyard. Starlight danced on the tile and the water in the small fish pond. He could see the French doors to her bedroom standing open and smiled to himself over his good fortune.
He found her asleep, sprawled facedown on the white sheet. He removed his hat and coat while he studied her subtle form in the dim illumination of the room. Good that he could see well in the dark to appreciate such beauty. He removed his shirt and toed off his boots.
Undressed, he eased himself down on the edge of the bed and gathered her in his arms. Warmth radiated from her lush body; the rich musk filled his nose. His mouth sought her neck and when she emerged from sleep, her hands sought his face.
“Ah, Lamas, my lover, at last you return.” Her hungry mouth found his and they were lost in lovemaking.
He awoke before daybreak and sat on the edge of the bed considering her. Lovely woman, but like so many others, even she did not satisfy him but for the instant. What did he search for? This one made love like it burned her up, consumed her. He could find no fault with her ripe body. What was wrong with him?
“Lamas, you mustn’t leave me so soon.” She reached for him.
“Have you heard of any more silver shipments coming up from Sonora?” he asked softly, leaning over her. Let her beg him; he wanted information in exchange.
“No, but did you hear that the Clantons killed all those men in the Peloncillos?”
“Mucho bad hombre, that Clanton.” He kept his amusement to himself about the old man getting all the blame for his own robbery.
“Oh, he must be bad.” She swept a sheet over them to wrap her nakedness.
“If I promise to learn more about the next silver train, will you stay in my bed until the rooster crows?” She pushed her pouty lips at him.
“I promise.”
Lamas and the others waited for Black at the San Bernardino Spring. A great pool of water fed by an artesian spring under some gnarled cottonwoods marked a watering hole for the Chiricahuas, who for centuries rode from their mountains by this place on their way to the Sierra Madre. So fierce were the Apaches that despite several tries, the Perez family who owned the king’s grant had abandoned cattle raising on the vast land that stretched for miles on both sides of the border.
Since the Apaches were moved north to San Carlos, Lamas decided, at last the family could use this large holding. Where was Black? He studied the waist-high yellow grass that waved in the wind. In the distance, the brown sugar loaves of the Peloncillo Mountains rose. Time for the Texan to appear. If he didn’t arrive by nightfall, Lamas would send the men out looking for him.
“Maybe he got snakebit like you said happened to Diego.” Sarge spat tobacco to the side of the fallen tree trunk he sat upon.
“It would kill the snake,” Lamas said.
“That sumbitch may be tough, but by gawd, ain’t many ever lived through a sidewinder bite. Had a big Polack private, name was Whizacowski, and he got bit one morning. Reached down for his saddle and the damn thing had crawled under it overnight and it struck him. Big man, he died before noon that day.”
“If Black is dead, we will know in time.” The ex-soldier was not Lamas’s favorite person to talk with. Somehow Sarge’s personality grated on Lamas and, while the man did his job, Lamas never felt comfortable in the noncom’s company, especially at layovers like this. Something he could not put his finger on about the man and his ways.
“Yeah, but maybe the buzzards’ll eat him first—’fore we find him.”
“He’s too damn tough for them to want a chunk of him.” Lamas looked off to the south, not anxious to continue their discussion.
Sarge just nodded. “I never liked Texans. Fought them bastards in the war.”
“I guess nobody has to like anyone,” Lamas said. He grew weary of the man’s words and tired of the boy’s bad cooking. Maybe he should ride to Naco and find a woman to cook for them. She would have to be ugly, so his horny hands didn’t keep her from cooking—though there wasn’t one that bad-looking in all of Sonora or Arizona, and he could throw in New Mexico too, for that matter.
“He’s coming,” Sanchez said, matter-of-factly. “It is the roan horse. I know his pattern.”
Lamas stood on his toes. He never doubted the things Sanchez could see or hear. Black was coming and he wondered if he’d found a herd for them to steal.
In a short while, Lamas heard the hard-breathing horse and Black appeared. The roan was lathered in sweat and dripping.
“Jimmy, walk that hot horse for him.” Lamas made a side motion with his hand to hurry the boy to it. If the roan was not cooled, he might get stiff.
“Find any cattle?”
“Fifteen hundred.”
“How many hands?”
“Half dozen.”
“Do they look tough?”
Black shook his head, stepped over and poured himself a cup of coffee. In an instant, he spit the mouthful out with a bad face. “Who made this?”
He looked hard at Sarge, then Sanchez, but neither man offered a word.
“The kid,” Lamas said sharply. “Are they toughs?”
“Naw, it’s a family. Bunch of boys. Be like taking candy from a baby.” He tossed out the contents of the pot and held it up, making a face while the black slag drained out. Then he swirled water in it and redrained it. The entire time, Black made impatient faces at the other two.
“I ought to kick both your asses for letting him do that.
Where’s the damn Arbuckle at anyway?”
“In the pannier.” Sarge pointed his jackknife at it and went back to whittling.
“How far away is the herd?” Lamas asked, more interested in the herd than the state of the coffee.
“We can take them tomorrow might. Have the cattle at Clanton’s in two days, if we’ve got enough horses to ride.”
“I’ll go get some horses,” Lamas said, anxious for an excuse to leave the camp and find. some food worth eating.
“Better have four apiece and a wrangler to keep up with them. It will take all of us to keep that large a herd moving.”
“I’ll do that.” Lamas hurried to his horse and tightened the cinch. This cattle rustling would be like shooting ducks in a barrel, or was it fish? He shrugged. Never mind; Black was back with good news. To celebrate, Lamas would eat some real food in town, get some horses and help. He hoped the others did not kill one another while he was gone. He gave a shudder, thinking about the terrible coffee that boy had made for them. His bay could not go fast enough.
After a good meal in Naco, Lamas found a man he trusted to wrangle the horses. His name was Valdez. The two of them rode up to Turkey Creek and rented the horses from a rancher, who eyed them very suspiciously.
“You don’t intend to steal my horses?” The man looked at him out of one eye, the other closed to the midday glare.
For ten cents he would cut this man’s chicken neck off at his shoulders, but no, he only needed the horses for a few days. To arouse such a rancher would be foolish. These cattlemen could be the source of a fresh horse in desperate times. They didn’t blab to the law, had their own code about loyalty and si
lence.
“Señor, this silver cross I wear”—Lamas held it up for the man to see—“belonged to my mother. To show you I am only renting your bangtails, I will leave this treasure with you until I return the horses. Money could not buy it, señor.” He removed his sombrero and handed the man his cross and chain.
“Since you’re willing to do that, I reckon you are only renting them ponies. That blue roan will only buck when you saddle him. Gets over it. Them others just crow-hop a little on the start.” The man held up the cross so the sun shone on it. “Guess you are proud of this thing. Ride easy, boys.” And he waved the two of them out the gate.
If only the dumb gringo knew that Lamas had taken that cross from a dead man, he might not even have put it over his head. Lamas and Valdez drove the horses ahead of them and rode hard for the San Bernardino Spring.
When they returned with the remuda, Black walked among them and Lamas could tell by his look he approved of the rented horses. They made plans to intercept the herd after sundown. Take the night herders out first. Then Black and the kid would ride guard on the cattle while the others took care of the crew in camp. At daylight, they would turn the herd south and cross into Mexico before the Mexican officials even suspected them. They would rest the herd overnight at a place called Fria, where there was water, and then drive them hard to the old man’s the next day. Simple enough plan.
Valdez was to bring the fresh horses to them at first light. Lamas felt things were set. He didn’t bother to eat any of the beans on the fire, though he knew that Black had cooked them. They took naps until sundown, then set out.
Past midnight, Lamas heard cattle bawling and shared a nod with Black. They came down a steep hillside and Lamas worried that their horses’ shoes clacking on the rocks would be heard. The herd was bedded in a valley and he could make out the ribs of a wagon. He listened to some herder singing, so if his horse ran into a sleeping animal they would be awake enough not to spook him and stampede. These cattle came a long way from Texas, so there was not much danger of them jumping up—they would be trail-sore enough to hold. Still, shooting around them could cause him and his men troubles the rustlers did not need.
They reined up in an arroyo and waited. Lamas sent Sanchez. The Indian brought the first herder down with a thud in the night. Black took the man’s hat and horse to ride in the herder’s place so his outline would not spook the other rider. On foot to get the second rider, Lamas hurried behind the Yaqui. He almost walked into a cactus bed, but Sanchez saved him. Grateful, he nodded and they both squatted down. The second cowboy drew closer.
When he came past them, Sanchez grabbed him and jerked him from the horse. His knife found its mark before the rider could hardly protest. Where was the boy? Damn, time was precious. Sanchez led the horse back to where Sarge and Jimmy were sitting.
“Get out there and ride around them like Black,” Lamas hissed at the boy.
“Yes, yes.” He was mounted and gone.
Sanchez led Lamas and Sarge around the herd the other way. Soon the smell of smoldering mesquite reached Lamas’s nose. The fire had about burned down; only the orange glow of a few logs remained. Bedrolls were spread about the campground. Sanchez slipped to the far one, raised his knife and plunged it repeatedly into the sleeping cowboy. Sarge took another, but his knife missed the mark and his victim began to shout and cry out. Nothing else to do: Lamas drew his pistol and shot the man beneath him squarely in the face. Sanchez stabbed another in the back trying to escape. His Colt still smoking, Lamas shot the last one in his bedroll before he could get to his pistol.
Sanchez cut his victim’s throat. Wiping the knife blade on his pants, he searched around. Sarge had reached the wagon.
“Look what I found,” the noncom shouted and drug a kicking, swearing young boy out. “They had a cub in there.”
Sanchez made a sign with the side of his hand across his throat. Sarge nodded and did it. The boy’s cursing stopped. Lamas looked anxiously into the night—good, thank God, the shots had not spooked the cattle.
The Yaqui, without instructions, began to loot the dead bodies. He put their few valuables in a pile and worked around until not only the bodies but the bedrolls had been searched. Sarge made a torch and checked out the wagon.
He climbed out and shook his head. “Food and gear is all I could find.”
“Put their bodies in it,” Lamas said, squatting by the fire. “We will burn it when we leave. It will look like Apaches did this.” He was anxious to get back to his own hacienda, Los Palmos. Perhaps he could return home after these cattle were delivered to the old man
He had plenty of money and gold. What more could he want? Respect. Hard for a man whose mother was a puta to draw respectability. He owned a hacienda, had many fine horses, knew many rich people—perhaps if he married some rich man’s daughter and sired children from her. He would think on this matter. Those repeating rifles he would soon deliver to Don Marques, perhaps that transaction would raise his esteem among the wealthy landowners in Sonora. The arms should be at the storekeeper’s warehouse in Nogales soon and he would slip them into Mexico. Don Marques could not even buy them. The government officials in Sonora would only allow him to buy one rifle. One rifle, ha! He would show them. Don Lamas was going to deliver a wagonload of .44/.40s and ammunition to the man.
Don Marques would brag to his influential friends about the feats of Don Lamas. Then perhaps a daughter of such rich men would fill his bed this winter. He would go to high society fandangos and fiestas with her. Oh, his wedding to her would be so fancy they would never forget it. Yes, the boy they called Chupo, who was a pistolero at fifteen, would be Don Lamas, the rich rancher, to everyone.
Which daughter would he choose? There was the Baca girl … he was brought to awareness by Black.
“Which shift do you want? Now or two hours from now?”
“Now is fine.” He jerked down his waistcoat. Why was he to ride herd like a stupid peon? No matter, he was the one who sent the soldados home. He did that too soon; they could have helped drive the cattle. Lamas went to find his horse. In two days, this sea of vacas would be a large pile of ten-dollar gold pieces. Maybe Black didn’t like Old Man Clanton, but he would like his share of the money.
Lamas chuckled to himself, mounting up. This way there would be more time for him to think about the woman he would choose for his bride.
They drove the cattle on the run the last five miles to Old Man Clanton’s. Earlier, Sanchez thought he saw dust in the north, which could mean Federales. His report put Black into motion and he set the longhorns in a trot. Once moving, they became a boiling, bawling dust storm.
Lamas hated his fresh mount, but he whipped and spurred the lazy gelding to keep the cattle going. At times, visibility close to the herd shut down to a few feet. The cloth over his mouth became clogged with dirt. Alkali burned his eyes, but he kept moving in close to quirt the slow cattle and curse their ancestry.
“We are there!” Black shouted and rode in close to him. The Texan pulled down the filthy mask and his chin shone white against the dirt and grime around his eyes and forehead. Lamas laughed at the sight of him.
“Good,” Lamas said and drew his horse back. He let the wind carry away the dust of the herd, and the steers spread out on the flat grassland when the other riders dropped aside. Maybe a bath would make him feel better, and there was Juanita to think about too. He would visit her one more time before going back to his hacienda. No telling, perhaps she had learned something more worthwhile in his absence, like a silver shipment being smuggled in to avoid the customs. It amused him that they blamed the old man for that robbery.
“No need in me going to Mexico with you,” Black said.
“No, but wait until I return in the morning and see what information I can learn tonight.”
“That’ll be fine. You going to pay the horse wrangler to take them horses back?”
Lamas nodded. “He can handle it alone.”
“Good. See you
about breakfast.” The big man reined the gray around. Lamas smiled after him. No way that horse bucked very far under Black. Black must be anxious to get back to the widow women in the Santa Ritas. He once worried about Black, who never acted interested in woman captives, putas and the like, so he had his tracker follow the Texan. When the Yaqui returned to the hacienda to tell his findings, Sanchez laughed freely over Lamas’s concerns about the Texan.
“You have no worries, he is a stallion,” Sanchez said.
“You saw him do it?”
“Sí. I felt sorry for that poor woman.” He held out his forearm stiff like a giant phallus. “It was that big.” They both laughed.
Lamas knew the big man must be anxious to return to her. Sanchez never spoke of the woman’s beauty. All Lamas knew about her was she was a widow and had a small ranch. Black spent his off time at her place.
Lamas booted his horse for the house and corrals. First he would see Old Man Clanton and then take a bath. Ah, yes, Juanita’s voluptuous body filled his thoughts.
Lamas dropped heavily from the saddle. Old Man Clanton stood on the porch scratching his privates and waiting for him. His gray beard was shaggy and he wore clothes as rumpled as if he slept in them. The head of the gang looked more like a derelict than the boss of a major ring of outlaws and ranching scion.
“Didn’t take you long to find them,” Clanton said and spat in the dust at the edge of the porch. Some brown juice ran off his thin lip and into the stained white beard.
“I beat you to them.” Lamas smiled because he knew that was exactly what the old man thought. Probably made him mad that he hadn’t learned of the herd first.
“Yeah, you did. Still lots of work to do to them before I get my money. I’ll have to rebrand them and let that heal.”
“And then sell them for a big profit to the agency at San Carlos.”
“It damn sure ain’t all profit.” The man looked affronted that Lamas would accuse him of making a lot of money off the deal. “Come on inside.” Clanton squinted hard at something in the distance, then spat again, turned and led the way.
Lawless Land Page 6