The Sonora Noose

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The Sonora Noose Page 21

by Jackson Lowry


  “That’s one way of putting it,” Barker said. He still felt the outline of his son’s boot in the middle of his back. If anyone had gotten walked over ...

  “What do you recommend? Should I send a couple scouts ahead to get the exact location of the howitzer?”

  “Might not be a bad idea,” Barker said. “All I knew was that it was firing from a ledge not too far above the canyon floor. And it was to the left.”

  “A quarter mile into the canyon?”

  Barker nodded. He rested his hand on his empty holster. The habit of touching the six-gun’s butt now drew attention to his condition.

  “You require a sidearm, Marshal?”

  “Reckon so. A rifle, too.”

  “I see your horse,” Tomasson said. He started to ask another question, and Barker knew what it was. The colonel wanted to know how a deputy federal marshal could lose all his weapons but not his horse. That was the kind of story that would be good for a round or two of drinks if told with aplomb.

  All Barker felt when he remembered he had lost his pistol and rifle was shame. His own son had taken them. If he neglected to tell the crowd at the Plugged Nickel it was his son and instead told them the Sonora Kid had taken the guns and let him live, he might get a third round out of them. Why would a bandolero like the Sonora Kid let a sworn enemy live once he had plucked his weapons from him and left him helpless?

  The only answer Barker had for that was how Nate wanted to humiliate him further—and that meant something else awaited the unwary deeper in the canyon.

  “Your scouts might try to sneak in on foot,” Barker said to Tomasson. “Find out if the gang is even camped there anymore. They’ve had a full day to lose themselves in the canyons.”

  “Sergeant,” barked Tomasson, “see to it. Three scouts, one down each wall and one down the center of the canyon, following the stream.”

  Sturgeon saluted and went to send the men into the shooting gallery. Barker almost volunteered to go but found movement a bit of a problem. He would only draw attention—and fire from the gang.

  Would Nate congratulate any of his men who shot him? Or would Nate punish them for doing what he wanted to do for his own pleasure? Barker shivered.

  “You needing a blanket, Marshal? It doesn’t seem that cold to me yet,” the colonel said.

  “I’m just thinking on what it’ll take to pry them loose. It won’t be easy.”

  “Don’t think it will. Here, take these.” A private came up with a carbine and a pistol that barely fit into his empty holster. The pistol had been designed to ride butt forward in a cavalry trooper’s holster. Barker almost asked if any spare holsters were to be had, then knew they weren’t. The soldiers had come directly from the fort, so they hadn’t been in combat and salvaging equipment off fallen comrades. He was lucky to get any firearms at all, since the soldiers traveled light and fast. Carrying extra rifles would take away from their ability to carry more ammunition.

  “Thanks, Colonel.” Barker hefted the carbine and then shifted the pistol around in his holster. It felt better in his hand than at his side.

  “I don’t want to pitch camp here,” Tomasson said. “Pressing on in the dark is dangerous, though, without definite information about the gang. How many are there?”

  Barker shook his head.

  “Can’t rightly say, but there are at least five. My guess, from the way they fired the howitzer and had two others on either side, is that there might be two or three more.”

  “Colonel! The scouts are back,” came the call.

  “So soon?” Tomasson frowned. “I need to find out if this is good or bad for our mission.”

  Three men drifted closer and then stood at what passed for attention among the scouts. Barker doubted they were soldiers, but rather they were recruited drifters who happened to know more about the territory than even the locals. One looked to be an Apache, but Barker couldn’t tell.

  “They cleared out, Colonel,” the nearest man said. “From the destruction in there, they fired at least a half dozen artillery shells, then struck camp and hauled away the howitzer.”

  Another scout spoke up. “The outlaws have a full day’s head start. But they’re not going to be able to move real quick, not if they’re draggin’ the howitzer and its caisson down that rocky trail.”

  “Do you think they would abandon the weapon?” Tomasson said.

  The scout took a few seconds to ponder on his answer, but Barker knew that the howitzer afforded added firepower and that meant increased destruction. All Nate wanted was to add to the blood he had already spilled into the arid New Mexico dust.

  “They lugged it with ’em. Can’t see any reason not to try to make it into Mexico with it.”

  “Mexico?” The question slipped from Barker’s lips before he realized it.

  “The Sonora Kid’s from south of the border, so he wants a shiny toy to show off to his amigos there. Think how he could brag on stealin’ one of our cannon,” the scout said.

  “That makes sense,” Colonel Tomasson said.

  Barker wasn’t going to argue. They thought the Sonora Kid was a Mexican. Hope sprang up like a weed in a rocky crevice, but it soon died again. What good was it if the cavalry thought the Sonora Kid was anyone but his son? That changed nothing between him and Nate. Worse, it did nothing to wipe away the blood his son had spilled for the sheer thrill of it.

  The vaquero might have called himself the Sonora Kid, but Nate had killed him and taken over leadership of the gang. Those were facts, and no mistaken identity would ever change them.

  “You look peaked, Marshal. You want to stay behind? Go back to Mesilla?”

  “I’m riding with you.”

  “I understand. You’ve tracked that bastard so long, you can’t give up with victory so close at hand.”

  Barker touched the pistol crammed into his holster, then curled his finger around the trigger of the borrowed carbine.

  “You have no idea how long I’ve tracked him, Colonel.”

  This got him another odd look, but Barker was past caring. He made his way downhill and stepped up into the saddle. He settled down with a soft moan. He hurt now. He would hurt a hell of a lot worse at the end of the trail, and not just from Nate crushing his laudanum beneath a cruel boot. Barker snapped the reins, and his dutiful mare once more entered the canyon where most of the posse had been killed. He tried not to look at the craters left by the artillery shells or the tatters of clothing and the bodies half picked clean by the animals.

  The night hid most of the carnage, but the guilt—the shame—burned hot and bright in his breast.

  “Up yonder, Marshal. That ledge. That where they fired on you from?”

  The scout sounded a little apprehensive.

  “It is. You picked the spot exactly.” Barker had said the right words. In the dark, the scout hadn’t been completely certain of the gun placement, but he relaxed when his guess was confirmed.

  They slowly rode past the point of the ambush, finally on the trail after the fleeing outlaws. At the bottom of the steep-walled canyon only a faint band of stars directly overhead provided ghostly illumination. It had the feeling of an especially deep grave, and Barker looked up repeatedly, expecting to see giant shovels of dirt cascading down onto his head.

  Eventually the moon rose high enough in the sky to add to the light, but the rocky trail still proved treacherous. When they came out into a broader valley, Tomasson called a halt.

  “We camp for the night. Sergeant, set up guards. Double duty tonight. I don’t want to get caught with my pants down.”

  “Right away, sir.” Sturgeon looked over at Barker, then went to issue orders.

  “We ought to keep going. They’re slower, as long as they’re dragging the cannon with them,” Barker complained to the colonel.

  “You’re half-dead in the saddle. My men have ridden damned near fifty miles today to get here. We rest.” Tomasson said in a softer tone, “We want to be ready for them. They’re a treache
rous lot. You know that. The more rested we are, the quicker the fight will be over.”

  “The quicker it’ll be over,” Barker said dully. He left the soldiers to pitching their camp and found a spot off to one side where he could be alone. Dismounting with his stiff back was a problem, but he finally kicked his feet free and simply fell down. The impact sent a harsh jolt up his back, but he gritted his teeth and endured it. He had to.

  Tomorrow he would arrest his own son for crimes so terrible he could barely understand them.

  23

  BARKER SLEPT POORLY, YET THE SOUND OF THE SOLDIERS breaking camp woke him with a start. He sat up, clutching the pistol and looking around wildly.

  “Whoa, settle down,” came Sergeant Sturgeon’s soft drawl. “I been watchin’ over you all night. Their deaths are weighin’ down real heavy on you.”

  “Deaths?” Visions of the men his son had killed paraded through his mind. Those on the stagecoach, Hugh Dooley, Lieutenant Greenberg and the other soldiers, and earlier. How many of the deaths he had attributed to the entire gang were perpetrated by his son’s own hand?

  “The posse. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I led them into a trap. I felt in my gut that it was a trap, and I bulled my way in and—”

  “And the Sonora Kid could have been all the way into Mexico by then. You were just overanxious, Marshal. Nothin’ more’n that. Now, get your gear ready. We’re on the trail in ten minutes.”

  Barker saw that most of the soldiers were ready, though a few polished off cups of coffee and used the dregs to douse the flames of the campfires. He made his way to the stream and washed his face. Where tears had flowed before burned as the cold water touched his cheeks. He had no explanation for that. As he bent forward to drink, he saw a reflection in the water. He reached for his pistol, then stopped.

  “Morning, Colonel,” he said.

  “Sergeant Sturgeon told me you’d come down here. Can I ask you a question, Marshal?”

  “Ask away.” Barker finished rubbing the cold, clear water on his face, then drank what he could. It settled to his belly in a hard, cold lump.

  “How’d you get the boot print in the middle of your back?”

  “You don’t miss much, do you, Tomasson?”

  “As commander I find myself ignoring much of what goes on, either because I have to or want to because it’s not good for discipline to take every detail into account. Some of it I don’t understand. That’s a strange thing to admit, but it’s true. These soldiers aren’t like the people I grew up with back in Wisconsin. Their concerns are best dealt with by the noncoms.”

  “Sergeant Sturgeon is a good man.”

  “The best soldier in the field I’ve ever commanded. But while I ignore details, it’s not necessarily true that I don’t notice them.”

  Barker felt the weight of secrecy on his shoulders, crushing the very life from him. He wanted to blurt out that his own flesh and blood was an inhuman murderer, but that wouldn’t ease the pain. It would only add to it.

  “Your troopers are waiting for you to lead them, Colonel.”

  “The scout returned just after sunrise. We have a problem, Marshal.”

  “What?” His heart almost stopped beating.

  “This valley leads away in three different directions. The scout knows the gang split up and went down at least two of them. He didn’t have time to see if they might have gone down the third as well.”

  “You have plenty of men.”

  “I do, Marshal, I have plenty even if I divide my force into thirds, but my problem is somewhat different. Do I insist that you ride with me or with Sergeant Sturgeon? And if it’s necessary for yet another contingent to break off, could I trust you with Sergeant Jefferson? He’s new to the company, transferred in from Fort Davis only a week before ... before Lieutenant Greenberg was killed.”

  “Depends on how much you trust me,” Barker said, cutting to the heart of the matter. Tomasson might order him back to Mesilla, but they both knew that was not going to happen. Ignoring such an order would be easy for a civilian federal deputy, and Tomasson didn’t want to spare a man to escort him back to town.

  “That is a matter of some concern to me, Marshal. You are carrying a burden of knowledge I would share.”

  “If that’s what it takes for you to trust me, you’ll have to make your choice without knowing.”

  Tomasson looked hard at him, then did a sharp about-face and marched back to his command. Barker followed more slowly, wondering what the colonel would decide, but when he mounted and the officer gave the order to move out, he didn’t even glance in Barker’s direction.

  Less than an hour later they reached the far end of the valley and the three paths breaking away. Barker knew that the scout hadn’t made any mistake about the two trails, and he rode to the third. He crisscrossed the trail, hunting for any sign the outlaws had ridden this way.

  “Well?” Sergeant Sturgeon trotted over and waited a few yards away.

  “One rider. He tried to cover his tracks but there was ... one rider.” Barker looked into the distance and saw only the curve in the narrow canyon. The walls told him nothing. To find out more, he would have to pursue.

  “There’s no question that they split and went down both of the other trails. The deep ruts in the soft dirt near the stream show where the howitzer was pulled.”

  “That’s the trail I’m following.” Barker cast a glance over his shoulder, wondering if Nate had sent the rest of his gang down the other paths so he could escape this way. Nate had no loyalty to his men. He had shown that repeatedly, but something more told Barker he had made the right decision.

  He had to follow the cannon, since that weapon afforded his son the best chance of killing huge numbers of men.

  They rode back to where Tomasson spoke animatedly with his scouts. The scouts waved their arms about and looked madder than wet hens.

  “What’s the argument?” Barker asked.

  “There’s no doubt the cannon was drawn down the lefthand canyon, but I can’t get a clear idea how many men went with it and how many took the central canyon trail.”

  “Most of ’em went down the middle, Colonel. We followed ten men. Six went down the middle.”

  “And four down the left?” Barker asked. “Or only three?”

  “However many’s left after the six went that way.”

  Barker considered mentioning the solitary rider he was certain had escaped, but finally he said nothing. He had made his decision. He followed the cannon.

  “Sergeant,” the colonel finally said, waving the scouts to silence. “You will take your squad and recover the howitzer. I will pursue down the middle since it is my opinion that is where the Sonora Kid thought to escape.”

  Barker frowned, not sure how the officer had come to that conclusion. Tomasson felt the man’s eyes on him and responded.

  “A coward and a killer like the Kid will want the most men around him possible, both for protection and to command. I don’t know why the forces were split, since they are stronger if they remain in a single unit, but he is, after all, an outlaw and not a soldier.”

  Colonel Tomasson formed his company and rode away, leaving Sturgeon with Barker and a squad of men.

  “They’re the best there is at Fort Selden,” Sturgeon assured him. “They’re mine.”

  Barker stared at the ruts in the earth made by the mountain howitzer and knew his son was riding along this road. Colonel Tomasson had judged wrong what the Sonora Kid would do.

  “It’ll be hard if you lose any of them,” he finally said.

  “We’re soldiers,” Sturgeon assured him, then set his men on the road after the Sonora Kid.

  “HOW CAN THEY MAKE SUCH SPEED PULLING THE cannon?” Barker asked, frustrated. It was nearing sundown, and they had yet to catch sight of their quarry.

  “They don’t worry much about takin’ care of the horses hitched to the carriage,” Sturgeon said. “My guess is that horse—or horses—is ’bout
dead by now.”

  “Their saddle horses should be tuckered out, too,” Barker said. “That’ll make it easier for us. They won’t be able to run.”

  “Might make it harder. You corner an animal and it fights ten times as hard. Column, halt!” Sturgeon held up his gloved hand when he spotted movement ahead at the point where the narrow canyon widened into another valley.

  Barker blinked and saw furtive motion. He slid the pistol from his holster since whoever’d come up was close. Real close.

  “Don’t go gettin’ all antsy on me,” complained the scout. He appeared out of the darkness. “I got some good news and some bad news.”

  “What’s the good news?” Sturgeon asked.

  “We finally run ’em to ground. The gang’s camped not a half mile ahead.”

  “What’s the bad news?” Barker had to ask.

  “They’re camped not a half mile ahead and they ain’t makin’ no effort to hide.”

  “It’s another ambush,” Barker said in a husky voice. Visions of artillery shells exploding all around and the sound of men and horses being blown apart returned to haunt him.

  “That’s the way I see it, too,” the scout said, “but I don’t know how it’s intended. There’s four men around the fire. If I’d wanted, I coulda snuck up and cut a throat or two.”

  “Did you see him? The Sonora Kid?” Barker’s mouth turned as dry as the desert. He wasn’t sure what answer he wanted to hear.

  “If he wears one of them fancy sombreros with the big brims, yup, I seen him. He was talkin’ real loud and boastin’ on all the men he’d killed.”

  Barker sagged a little. Then he sat upright and said, “We should hit them now, before they know we’re here.”

  Sergeant Sturgeon stroked his stubbled chin and nodded.

  “You got the right of it, Marshal. We’re all tired from ridin’ and trackin’, but surprise can make up for that. If there’s four of them, we outnumber them three to one.”

  The darkness would work against them but possibly it would be worse for the outlaws. The soldiers were trained, and Barker had to believe Sturgeon when he said these were the best troopers at Fort Selden.

 

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