Lawless Land

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Lawless Land Page 9

by Dusty Richards


  “Jesus?”

  The rumpled-looking man in filthy clothing let go of the pick and turned to look up from under a worn-out straw hat. He blinked his eyes in disbelief.

  “Major Bowen?” he managed in a cracked voice.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?” Jesus asked.

  “What in hell are you doing down there?”

  “Working. Why?”

  “’Cause I’ve got a helluva lot better job for you than this.”

  Bowen blinked in shock when Jesus dropped to his knees, made the sign of the cross and began to pray out loud to the Virgin Mary.

  “You are hiring my help away?” the little man demanded, coming from the ramada as if Bowen had no authority to do such a thing

  “Yes, I am. Jesus, get up here. We’ve got things to do.” Bowen had no time for this little banty rooster of a pest.

  When Jesus neared the top of the ramp, Bowen could see his eyes were filled with tears. This ex-scout who had fought Apaches like a tiger was crying over this newfound offer. Bowen could hardly believe, it Jesus bawled like a baby.

  “Jesus, what’s the matter with you?” he asked

  “Oh, Major, what do you need from me?” He wiped his wet eyes on the side of his hands.

  Bowen could hardly believe it was him. It appeared the man hadn’t bathed or shaved in weeks. Was this really Jesus Morales? What had caused such a dramatic fall?

  “We can’t talk here. Where is there a bathhouse?”

  “We can go to the Santa Cruz River.” Jesus motioned toward it.

  “No, I mean a bathhouse.” Bowen shook his head to dismiss that as the wrong answer.

  “If you are quitting in the middle of the day, I am charging you for lunch,” Conteras said.

  “Go to hell!” Jesus said.

  “You owe me—”

  Jesus reached out and caught the man’s shirt in his fist. He drew him close to his face to make him squirm. “Go to hell, Conteras!”

  “You can’t quit—”

  “Come on, Jesus,” Bowen said. “He ain’t worth killing.”

  He released the man and turned to Bowen. “Where are we going, Major?”

  “Get in the cab. We’re going to find you a bath and a clean suit of clothing.” Bowen considered the nasty, battered straw hat on the man’s head. He removed it and sent it sailing off into the pit. “And a new hat too.”

  Jesus grinned at him. “Good. I hated that one since the day I found it.”

  “Where can we go?”

  “To Tia’s.”

  In Spanish, Jesus rattled off directions and the driver nodded. They both climbed in the cab and the man made a U-turn.

  Jesus openned his mouth, but was too overwhelmed with emotion to speak. Bowen read the question in his eyes.

  “I’m the head of a new law enforcement agency, but it’s a secret. You heard of the Border Gang?”

  “Who has not heard of those killers?” Jesus asked as he recovered his composure.

  Bowen searched around to be certain they were alone. “Do you know who they are?”

  “Mexican bandits.”

  “You know their leader?”

  “I could find out.”

  Pleased with the answer, Bowen nodded his head. He felt excited for the first time since he had found his ex-scout. Maybe his decision to hire the man wasn’t so foolish after all. Morales’s condition had worried him, but he sounded like the same man who scouted for him—ready for duty. He hoped so, anyway.

  “Good. Sam T. Mayes will be here in a week. He will be the marshal in charge. I’ll pick out some good horses for the two of you to ride, and pack animals. Sam T. can get the supplies you will need when he comes.”

  “For this man Sam T. Mayes?” Jesus acted like a man in shock.

  “Yes. He will be the marshal. You’ll be his deputy. It pays two dollars a day.”

  “What else do I need to do?” Jesus uttered another prayer.

  “Can you find Too-Gut?”

  “I think so, for two dollars a day.” Jesus shook his head in disbelief.

  “All right. Tell him he gets the same pay. You and Too-Gut will help Sam T. round up this gang.”

  “This Border Gang is tough, I hear.” Jesus frowned at him.

  “There isn’t anything you, Too-Gut and Sam T. can’t whip.”

  “You know what I am thinking?”

  “What’s that, Jesus?”

  “That three men can make an army.”

  “Three good men.”

  Jesus slumped in the leather seat. He shook his head warily and looked disappointed.

  “You afraid?” Bowen asked.

  “No, Major, but I think it will be as much work as the adobe pit.”

  Then both men laughed.

  Tia’s place was a small house in the center of a few irrigated acres. An attractive woman in her thirties came to the door, made a face at the sight of Jesus and then smiled at the major.

  “Tia, this is my new boss. He wants a bath,” Jesus said.

  “For him,” Bowen said, when she looked at him with a questioning look.

  “Come, the water will be cold. I have no time to heat it.” She sounded concerned and ushered them inside the front doorway.

  Bowen spotted the high-backed tin tub in the center of the room. The short, shapely woman made several displeased faces at Jesus’ condition. At last she spoke. “Take those stinking rags off.”

  “I have no clothes to change into—”

  “Take them off before you smell my house up any more. I have seen you. He don’t care.” She gave a head toss in the direction of Bowen.

  “Excuse me?” Bowen said. “I am going to the store and find him some new clothes.”

  “Good. He needs them,” she said and showed him to the door.

  Bowen watched her run next door and then across the street. Quickly, she recruited several women to go with large ollas for the bathwater. He climbed in the taxi and told the man he wanted to go to a large store.

  The mercantile was expansive. Bowen purchased a white cotton shirt without a collar, a pair of canvas pants, suspenders, a wide-brimmed straw hat with a Chihuahua crush in the top and two pair of underwear. Since he didn’t have Jesus’ size, he decided he would wait on boots. Then he saw a bandolier that held .44/.40 cartridges. What would Jesus Morales be without a bandolier? He ordered it from the clerk and the shells to fill it. Then he chose a used .44 pistol from the gun case, a large-bladed hunting knife in a sheath, along with a holster set. Next he went through the silk scarfs until he found a powder-blue one. Satisfied with his purchases, he paid the man, took his packages and went out to the cab driver.

  “Back to Tia’s place,” he said and sat back in the seat.

  She was finished shaving Jesus when Bowen arrived. Jesus’s thick black hair had been given a long-overdue trim. He stood up in the sheet gown she had him wrapped in. Jesus blinked his bloodshot eyes in disbelief at the armload of things Bowen brought in.

  “I didn’t know your boot size,” Bowen apologized.

  “Oh, that is all right,” he gushed. “Go and I will dress,” he said to her.

  “No. I get to help you,” she said, acting excited about examining the purchases. She held the new canvas pants out at arm’s length and nodded her approval.

  “All right,” he said and started to take off the sheet.

  “Wait. Put these on,” she said and shoved the new set of one-piece underwear at him.

  He shrugged, took them, then threw the sheet over his head. Both she and Bowen laughed at his antics under the covers.

  “He never had any of that to wear before,” she said privately to Bowen. “He may not know how to put it on.” Then she raised her voice. “Be sure those buttons go in front.” They both laughed hard until the thin frame of Jesus emerged dressed in his one-piece underwear.

  “What are you telling him?” Jesus asked with a frown.

  “You look pretty good,” she said, smugly goin
g around him in a circle with her hands on her hips to inspect him.

  “Let’s get dressed. That cab driver is getting restless,” Bowen said to hurry them.

  “Who is going to fill this?” she asked, holding up the cartridge belts.

  “He’ll have time to do that before Sam T. comes.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Will this Sam T. need a bath too?”

  “Not that bad, I hope,” Bowen said, amused at her humor.

  His pants on and tucking in his new shirt, Jesus leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “But you can fill those belts for me while I am gone.” He indicated the bandoliers.

  Bowen considered her for a minute. “We will need to have supper when we return. Maybe some wine and goat?” He handed her some money.

  “Too much—”

  “A fat goat,” he said and they exchanged a smile.

  “For this much we will have a fiesta.”

  “Good,” Bowen said. “A fiesta is what we want.”

  The bootmaker was a tiny Mexican man in a small shop on a side street. When they came inside the room, it reeked of rich leather smells. The owner sat on the floor, crosslegged and taking a hammer to the sole of a new boot.

  “Sancho?” Jesus asked softly. “Any used boots to fit me?”

  The man peered over at Jesus’ bare feet as if calculating their size. Then he acted as if in deep concentration for a long moment before he spoke. “On the second shelf,” he said in Spanish.

  Jesus moved by. Sancho looked at the major’s feet and then nodded, saying, “Cuatro.”

  Bowen went by the man to look at the fourth shelf.

  “Sancho?” Jesus called out, pulling on a pair of high top black boots. “Do you know about the Border Gang?”

  The old man shook his head warily. “They say if you speak of them, they will cut out your tongue.”

  His boots on, Jesus stalked to the front and squatted down near the bootmaker. “Who are they?”

  “They say they are the wind.”

  “I say they are killers.”

  “Worse than that,” was all the old man would say.

  “How much?” Bowen asked, indicating Jesus’ boots.

  “Used. Two dollars.”

  “How much for the names of the gang members?” Bowen asked.

  “I am an old man. They have many spies here.” He shook his small wrinkled face as if unable to answer him.

  Bowen paid him the two dollars and they climbed in the cab.

  “It won’t be easy to learn their names, will it?” he asked Jesus.

  “I will find them,” Jesus promised and stretched his new footgear out to inspect them.

  “I believe you will, Jesus. I believe you will.” Bowen felt certain he had made the right decision. All he needed was Too-Gut and Sam T. there and they could get started.

  Tia’s fiesta proved a success. Musicians played in her backyard: They feasted on roasted goat, peppers, beans and rice. The wine flowed and a small boy ran to the nearby cantina to refill the buckets of beer.

  Bowen enjoyed the songs, and his Spanish, while not polished, was good enough for him to understand a portion of what they spoke about. He sat at a small table in the shadows and Tia made certain he had plenty of food and drink. She introduced various people to him, her neighbors, relatives and friends, giving him credit for the fiesta.

  Jesus came by in a while and squatted on his heels. “They say these bandits are from Mexico. The one who leads them is an hombre called Lamas.”

  “Lamas who?” Bowen asked under his breath.

  “That is his name.”

  “How does he do all this and no one sees his gang until they do some crime?”

  “They are like the wind, Major. Like the wind.”

  “Too-Gut could find their tracks. They must leave tracks.”

  “Sí, I will find him.”

  “They know nothing more than his name?” Bowen asked, impressed at last that they had a handle for the gang leader.

  “No, Major. He is perhaps a ghost.”

  Bowen nodded and considered the matter for a long moment. He understood how superstitious these Mexican people were, but there was nothing supernatural about the man they dealt with—he was alive. He gazed at the Chinese lanterns stretched over the dancing couples; Bowen felt convinced his plan would work. Sam T., Jesus and the Apache tracker were the force to bring this Lamas and his killing spree to an end.

  Sam T. showed Mrs. Julia Riley to the train at Raton. He eyed the people gathered on the platform out of habit, saw no one that appeared to be a threat, then followed Julia onto the coach. They chose a seat a third of the way down the car and he flipped the seat back over to take the one facing her.

  “I have noticed something,” she said, settled in her place. “You never miss examining every man that comes along. How many enemies do you have?”

  “Maybe a few, maybe hundreds.”

  “I see.”

  The locomotive began to jerk the cars. The train soon sped toward Santa Fe. From beneath them, the clack of the rails became a song and the sway of the car, their dance. Waltzing to Arizona, he mused, with a lovely partner. He turned and studied the drab-looking junipers through the grimy glass.

  A sweltering sun blazed across the azure sky. A lone gliding buzzard circled the five riders lined up along the crest of the desert rise. Lamas gazed intently on the distant stage stop below. Shimmering heat waves distorted his vision of the adobe buildings and surrounding horse pens. Nothing looked out of place.

  He pushed back his sombrero; the leather thong stretched across his throat. Then he raised up in the stirrups and with devilment in his heart turned to grin at the Texan beside him.

  “Well, Ezra, my compadre, we have at least two hours before the stage arrives.”

  A scowl flicked across Ezra Black’s face. Only Lamas had the nerve to call him by his first name. The Texan’s brittle reaction amused Lamas each time.

  “Yeah, Lamas,” he drawled, “and maybe the stage that comes will have that payroll on it.”

  “It will be on it, my friend.” Lamas laughed aloud, still amused at the frown on the Texan’s face. Ah, lovely Juanita, the big man did not know about his source of information for this robbery. He glanced down at the squat adobe buildings and his blood pumped faster in anticipation of seeing lots of money in the strongbox. Turning in his saddle, he surveyed the others. Sarge, wearing his blue faded army uniform, grinned and rubbed his palms together in a greedy gesture. The sleepy-eyed kid Jimmy wore a look of boredom on his pimpled face. Lamas’s Yaqui, Sanchez, the dependable one, weighed down by cross-belts of ammunition, had dismounted to check on his cinch.

  Jimmy roused himself and pushed back his dusty Stetson. “Are we going down there?” he asked lazily.

  Black frowned at Lamas. “Where the hell has he been?”

  . “Maybe we should send him down there alone,” Lamas said.

  The kid’s eyes flew open. “Huh?”

  A soft ripple of laughter from the others drew a flush to his face.

  Lamas leaned back in his saddle and sighed with satisfaction. He and his army were ready. When the Halsey coach from Nogales arrived, they would be in place. Good planning. Always his good planning made such things work so well, he silently gloated.

  Nudging his horse with a rowel, he signaled for his men to follow him down the slope toward the stage stop.

  The stagecoach continually jolted until every muscle in Justine Stauffer’s body cried out in protest. She felt disgusted with the constant billowing of fine powder that blew through the open side windows and crept through the cracks. Her brown dress turned a dull gray, and she could feel the dust crusting her fair skin. Her husband, Tom, was engrossed as usual in a sheaf of impressive-looking papers covered with facts and figures. Though his hip pressed against hers, she felt isolated from him.

  The coach lurched roughly, sending Justine sprawling over Tom’s lap, crushing his precious documents.

  “For God’s s
ake, Justine! Can’t you sit still?”

  She looked at her husband reproachfully, too wary of him to spout the words that sprang to her mind. It wasn’t her fault that the stage jerked her around like a rag doll.

  Allowing herself a meek “Excuse me,” she turned away from Tom and crouched in the corner, wondering if the torturous journey would ever end. Maybe she would find the courage, when they returned to Tucson, to leave Tom.

  Why she had accompanied him to Tombstone on this business trip, she simply didn’t know. He obviously did not desire her company. Dan Narrimore, the wealthy mine owner, had much more to offer her. His handsome good looks, sophisticated manner and splendid home were growing hard to resist. A vision of Dan brought a small amount of comfort to her weary spirit. Even though she found his company more desirable than her husband’s, when it came to making a break from Tom, she was a coward.

  A lump formed in her throat. Saliva refused to surface in her mouth and even swallowing did not erase the lump. Her blue eyes opened and she glanced at the timid little man on the facing bench. Bailey, her husband’s assistant, stared straight ahead, his thin white hand gripping the window frame. Justine admitted that he was probably worse off than she was. Poor Bailey. He had few interests in life other than his work. There were times when she suspected he knew more about mining than her engineer-degreed husband. Bailey painstakingly wrote the reports that were filled with tedious details while Tom played the social role.

  But, Justine wondered, what did men like Bailey think about? Had he no desire to make love to a woman? To her knowledge, he had never shown an interest in any. He seldom drank. Perhaps Bailey’s passion was satisfied by his work. Maybe his pulse quickened at the words he produced with a pen.

  Justine smiled. Bailey would be shocked if he knew her thoughts; his prominent ears would burn scarlet with embarrassment. She recalled that Tom had, at times, deliberately taunted him by saying, “Bailey, why don’t you go find some lady tonight and relax?” Her husband enjoyed disconcerting the man. It was apparently a part of Tom’s lord-and-master role, which he played so naturally. Yes, Bailey was in a worse position than she was. Yet he never showed any desire to escape.

 

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