Lamas forced his eyes open and peered up at the gringo, who seemed to be as tall as a mountain. “You are … Sam T. Mayes … . You have won, white man—” A wracking cough broke up the outlaw’s words. “But I, Lamas … I had her white flesh first.”
A smile, part smug and part sad, lifted Lamas’s mouth as he slumped dead onto the ground. Sam T. frowned down at the gang leader. For an instant, searing anger whirled through him like a fire. He wanted to kick the man, jerk him up, beat his face to a bloody pulp, because even in death, the outlaw had no remorse. He remained a smug, cold-blooded animal.
Sam T. shook his head to clear it. The Border Gang was no more. He had done the job he was hired to do. Lamas had at last answered to the law of the Arizona Territory
With a tired sigh, he turned and walked back toward Jesus and Too-Gut. The two had rounded up the remaining men from both sides.
“Good job, Jesus. Go check inside the barn,” Sam said, looking around at the wounded and dead. “Hey, you be careful. There might be one left in there.”
Jesus waved to indicate he had heard and hurried off to the barn.
“Is Lamas dead?” Black asked flatly.
Sam T. holstered his Colt, wincing with pain. “He’s dead.” When he looked at Black, he was surprised by the expression of loss on the man’s face.
“Lamas was a tough bastard,” Black said quietly.
Sam shook his head in disbelief. How had such a vicious outlaw like Lamas inspired that much loyalty? It was a crazy damned world. Too-Gut and Da-yah guarded the prisoners, who were seated on the ground. Then it occurred to Sam: He had forgotten about Justine Stauffer. Surely she was there someplace.
The abrupt silence of the guns frightened Justine, who crouched behind a wooden barrel that smelled sharply of oats. Biting her lip, she lowered her hands from her ears and held her breath. Cautiously she peeked over the barrel she had hidden behind. The creaking of the wooden barn caused her heart to pound harder. Was it Lamas coming for her at last?
With that thought in mind, she rose and watched the alleyway through the open harness room door, awaiting her fate. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the front opening of the barn. A man stood framed in the light. He wore a sombrero and crossed belts of ammunition.
A scream rose to her throat. It was Lamas! She dropped down, huddled behind the barrels and chewed on her knuckles.
“Señora, do not scream,” Jesus coaxed. “I am a friend. Please, I am here with the law. We are here to help you.”
“You aren’t Lamas?” Justine blinked her eyes, then ran her hand over her face. A shiver of relief ran through her entire body. Taking in her breath, she rose shakily and took a hard look at the man. “Oh, God, I thought you were Lamas coming for me.”
“No, señora. Lamas is dead.”
“Dead?” she repeated in shock. She couldn’t believe it. Her tormentor and enemy dead? She cast her gaze at the loft floor; her prayers had been answered. A wave of relief washed over her. She hardly knew what to do next, but she needed to see for herself that Lamas was truly dead.
Cautiously she walked toward the man. “Where is Lamas? I want to see him.”
“Señora, do you think that is wise?” At the stubborn expression on her face, Jesus relented. “Very well, but first I must be certain it is safe for you to come out.” He turned toward the door.
“No! Don’t leave me here alone.” She rushed to be beside him.
Jesus sighed. “All right, Mrs. Stauffer, you will come with me,” he said patiently. “We will go see Sam T.”
A low whistle suddenly escaped Jesus’ lips when he finally noticed the crates. “Madre Dios! Could those be the missing rifles?” He quietly moved forward and lifted the end of an opened crate. She stood beside him and blinked at the sight of the gleaming guns.
“This is a lucky day,” Jesus said with a grin. “Sam T. will be happy.”
Justine wondered about Sam T. Who was he? She was comforted somewhat by the knowledge that this Mexican, who looked like Lamas, knew her name. She looked into his face curiously. “What is your name, señor?”
“Jesus. Jesus Morales. Come, please.” He, held out a . hand to help her over the threshold.
Outside, the setting sun was beginning to bathe everything with an orange glow. With this short man at her side, she felt reassured of her own safety. She clutched at his arm as she looked around. When they rounded the corrals, she discovered two Indians armed with rifles, guarding several cowboys seated on the ground.
“Who is that?” She indicated the Apaches.
“Ah, that is Too-Gut and his wife Da-yah. They work with us.”
Justine blinked in confusion. First a man who looked like a bandit rescued her. And now Indians had arrested Dan’s cowboys. What would this Sam T. look like? And where was Lamas?
Sam T. handcuffed Black and put him with the other outlaws. There were a few loose ends left to tie up. When he glanced across the yard, he noted Jesus escorting a woman from the corrals. His first sight of Justine Stauffer surprised him. Despite her dusty dress and disorderly hair, she was beautiful. Much prettier even than the tintype showed. A wave of relief filled Sam when he realized the woman was alive and finally safe.
“Sam T.,” Jesus said when he and Justine were a few feet away from Sam. “The rifles are in the barn. I think they are all there.”
“Good job, Jesus,” Sam said, feeling the woman’s eyes appraising him.
Justine studied the tall, broad shouldered man in his dusty once-brown suit. He looked like a lawman, but where on earth had he gathered such a strange posse?
Sam approached her with a smile, hat in hand. “Mrs. Stauffer? I’m Sam T. Mayes, Territorial Marshal. It’s nice to meet you.”
Justine extended her hand and noted the pain on his face when he shook her hand. “Oh, you’re hurt.”
“An old injury,” Sam T. said, feeling uncomfortable. He engulfed her hand gently. “Mrs. Stauffer, could I ask you some questions?”
She nodded; then, looking around nervously, she rushed into her speech. “First, Mr. Mayes, I want to see Lamas. I want to be sure he’s dead!”
Sam T. stared into her strained face, then noticed she was visibly trembling.
“I understand,” he said quietly. Taking her arm in his good one, he led her across the yard to the corral. When they reached the pens, he felt her fingers stiffen on his sleeve.
Justine looked at the outlaw lying prone on the ground about ten feet from them. Dark blood soaked the entire front of his silk shirt, his body lay twisted at an odd angle, but still she was not certain that he didn’t have the power to hurt her again.
Pulling free, she hesitantly ventured toward Lamas. When she was within touching distance, she glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes pleading with Sam T.’s.
He reached her side quickly; then, dropping to his knee, he felt for a pulse at the outlaw’s throat.
“He is dead, Mrs. Stauffer.” And for a moment he recalled the outlaw’s final words concerning the woman behind him, and his face grew grim.
“He can’t hurt you anymore.” He rose and placed an arm around her shoulders.
“Yes, yes, you’re right. He can’t hurt me ever again.” Tears of relief welled in her eyes and trailed down her face. She allowed him to lead her away from the dead man, back toward the house.
“We’ll have you home in no time,” Sam T. said as he removed his hand and smiled down at her face. The skin had peeled in places on her cheeks and nose. It showed the hell she must have endured in the desert.
Justine used the back of her hand to wipe away her tears. Confidence seemed to radiate from this tall lawman and it warmed her. For the first time in days, a natural smile came to her crusted lips.
“I know you will, Mr. Mayes.”
“Jesus, find that buckboard. Mrs. Stauffer is probably anxious to get away from here.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. She stared off at the mountainside in the twilight. If she had only known he
was coming to her rescue, she would not have worried so much. The idea brought a smile of genuine amusement to her face. Someday she would invite the impressive marshal to visit her home, when her life returned to normal.
“Wait,” she said softly. “I can go with you and your men. What do I have to rush home for?” She waited for his answer.
“Be mighty kind of you, ma’am. You sure?” He looked at her hard.
“I am absolutely certain.”
“Good. Then you call me Sam or Sam T.”
“I certainly will.”
“Good, you have a seat. I’m going hustle up a wagon to haul these prisoners back in.”
Sam T., huh? She watched him rush off. Was he married? She hoped not, but anyway, she was pleased she’d thought of making the offer. Besides, it would give her more time to get to know him better. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. It was finally over.
They loaded the prisoners in a ranch wagon, which Jesus drove. Too-Gut and Da-yah led the extra horses. Sam T. handled the buckboard and escorted Justine. The trip required two days and she found the time spent most interesting. This big man Sam T. had many interesting traits about him that showed his good taste. In due time she wanted to learn even more.
Near Tucson, Sam T. paid Too-Gut money out of his own pocket, promised him those passes from the major and told him to keep out of sight until Jesus came for them. They had lots more work to do. The Apaches loaded the remaining supplies on an extra horse to take with them.
“Sam T., we be ready to work plenty soon,” Too-Gut said and waved his rifle.
Da-yah jumped off her horse, rushed up to him and rested her forehead on his chest. He hugged her until his sore arm hurt. Then she looked up and said, “You be careful.” She ran to join her mate.
Her action caused a knot to form in his throat. He wet his lips and watched them ride away into the greasewood. Swallowing the lump down there, he just looked away for a long while.
“We better go,” he said at last and climbed on the buckboard seat beside Justine. He was grateful when she didn’t ask any questions. She obviously knew enough about the Apaches’ plight from being around them the past two days.
Outside of Tucson, he prepared to part with Jesus.
“You can collect the reward for Lamas,” Sam T. said. “And on these others. Turn them over to the Pima County Sheriff’s Office. Don’t talk about me or the Apaches to anyone. They ask you, simply say your friends helped you and they were concerned citizens who went back home. They were afraid these outlaws had friends who would see them.”
“I will meet you at Tia’s tonight?” Jesus smiled.
“Yes,” Sam T. said with a confirming nod. “Get up there on that seat and take them in.” He tied their extra horses on behind the buckboard.
Then he waited and watched the somber prisoners seated on the wagon floor, their arms and feet bound, as Jesus pulled out. It was about over. If his plan worked for Jesus to deliver them to the sheriff, the major should be happy. Best he could do under the circumstances.
He climbed on the seat and turned to Justine. “Time we took you home.”
She reached over and hugged his arm, then impulsively laid her face on his left shoulder. “I’m being real brazen out here in this desert, aren’t I?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Good. You will come by and see me when you return to Tucson?”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”
She raised her head and smiled at him, then leaned back against his shoulder and squeezed his arm. “Good.”
When Sam T. arrived at Tia’s, she drew him a bath while he explained about their success. How was Jesus? Fine. She beamed and told him to bathe while she hurried out to her ramada to make him some food. Grateful, he soaked away plenty of desert dirt and wondered about Jesus and how the encounter with the law went. After a while, he dried, dressed and went outside under the shade to enjoy some of her spicy food. After he ate, she hustled him off to take a nap. Jesus came in after dark and awoke him.
“What did they say?” Sam T. asked, combing his hair back and ready to pull his boots on.
“The sheriff, he says, ‘You expect us to believe that Black is the only member of the whole Border Gang left alive?’”
“What happened next?”
“Black said he was the last one.”
Both men laughed.
“The rewards are coming. The sheriff, he asked me if I wanted to go to work for him.”
“And?” Sam T. paused before pulling on his last boot.
“I told him I had to spend that reward money first, huh?” Jesus grinned with pride.
“He never asked any more questions?”
“Oh, plenty more, and some boy from the newspaper asked me a thousand things.” Jesus shook his head as if the ordeal had been tiring.
“What did you tell him?”
“Lots of lies.”
“Did they believe you?” Sam T. snickered, envisioning the man doing it.
Jesus shrugged. “What else could they do?”
“Nothing.”
“I have some more good news. A Texas sheriff is coming to take Jimmy back to Texas to stand trial for murder. And the one they call Sarge that you left in the Nogales jail: the army already has him under arrest for murder and much more. They say he will hang.”
“That settles the whole thing. Let’s go get us some food.” Sam T. reached for his hat. “Tia can come along too. You ready?” he asked Jesus, who stood with her under his arm.
“I am ready. It has been a long time.”
Sam T. slipped on his hat. It had been a long time, but he did enjoy it. Beat working in a city like Denver. He stepped outside into the night and studied the spray of stars. This marshal business wasn’t so bad after all, especially with Lamas and his gang taken care of.
The next morning Sam T. parted with Jesus and climbed on the Prescott stage. It was all arranged for Jesus to keep his profile low, collect his rewards, make certain the horses were reshod and ready and watch for the mail. Tia would read it to him.
A day later, in Prescott, Sam T.—stiff and sore from his long coach ride—hiked up the hill to Bowen’s house in the early morning hours to explain the results.
When he finished his report, the major, who sat across the dining table, beamed at him. “It worked. The governor is excited as can be. He’s convinced this marshal business is the answer. How much rest do you need?”
“Enough time to get passes for two Apaches.” There—he’d put his cards on the table. What would the major do about it?
Bowen wiped his face with his hands, then lodked hard at him. “By gawd, Sterling will just have to arrange for them.”
“Good.” The matter, for Sam, was settled.
“I’ve got this deal for you,” Bowen began. “One of Quantrel’s chief men, Terrel Martin, is living the high life in Mexico. Sterling wants him brought back to the States and tried for his war crimes.”
“He’s in Mexico. No extradition, is there?” Sam knew the answer before he asked. Whew. He closed his eyes.
“Mary, bring that whiskey,” Bowen said and rambled on about the details of the case. Sam settled back in the chair and listened.
Ella Devereaux stood at her upstairs front window behind the lace curtains. Earlier that morning, she learned from a teary-eyed Lily that her plant in the telegraph office, Brad Townsend, under some sort of duress from the law, had fled Prescott. The notion did not make her any happier. That boy had been her source of much useful information.
In her hand was the latest telegram from Senator Green:
LEARN ALL YOU CAN ABOUT THESE BOUNTY MEN STERLING HAS HIRED—GREEN.
Deeply engrossed in the contents, she frowned at Abraham’s shouting in the house. Why, he’d wake up all the girls. Whatever did he want? She could hear his big feet pounding down the hallway. Out of breath, he rushed in her room and pointed out the man in the brown coat crossing the street.
; “That be him, Missy. That’s the one. That’s Sam T. Mayes.”
“You’re certain?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I am sure. That’s him, all right.”
Ella cupped her right elbow in her palm and squeezed her chin between her forefinger and thumb. So that was the mystery man who’d been causing all the trouble. She would have to meet this one. All men had some carnal weaknesses. Sam T. Mayes must have some, too.
INTO THE LAWLESS LAND …
When Sam T. entered the low-ceilinged adobe structure, he immediately noted the two men at the bar. They stopped drinking and eyed him suspiciously.
“What’s your business here?” the taller one demanded. Sam T. realized that, even drunk, these men would be deadly. He calculated that Jesus and Too-Gut had enough time to be in place.
A woman shouted from the back of the cantina. The men whirled and drew their guns.
Sam T. dropped to his knees, the .45 in his hand. His gun kicked and the roar of pistols blasted the room. Sam’s bullet caught the taller outlaw in the chest and sent him sprawling backward onto a table. The shorter one headed for the back, but Too-Gut’s rifle cut him down before he reached the rear doorway …
“Action explodes on the opening page in Dusty Richards’ account of Arizona lawlessness, and the pace does not let up until the last outlaw has been salted away—and there are plenty of them.”
—Elmer Kelton, author of The Bitter Trail and The Time It Never Rained
“THE LAWLESS LAND is a gritty, fast-paced story about an outlaw gang’s brutal depredations in Arizona Territory and the brave man who decides to stop them … a classic Western.”
—W. Michael Gear and Kathleen O‘Neal Gear, authors of People of the Mist
THE LAWLESS LAND
Copyright © 2000 by Dusty Richards.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y 10010.
Lawless Land Page 26