“We need to take them fast. They might set up the howitzer.”
“Might already have,” said Sturgeon. “I would swing it around to cover my back trail as soon as I made camp.”
Barker knew his son. Nate would not consider the safety of his men—or himself—until he had a drink or two or otherwise blew off steam.
“They’re not soldiers,” he said. “They’re not you. Let’s attack.”
Sturgeon nodded, then motioned for his corporal to ride closer. The two spoke rapidly for more than a minute, then the corporal went to pass the orders along. Barker felt increasingly nervous about the skirmish. If they went in fast, there might not be much killing.
Even as that thought crossed his mind, he knew how wrong it was because of Nate. He would go down fighting, no matter the odds. Taking him alive would be impossible unless someone got close enough to capture him without filling him full of lead. Barker hoped he could do that, but he had to face the possibility that the first man he would ever kill would be his own son.
“Advance!”
The voice was low but somehow carried in the night. Barker jumped as if it had been a gunshot, then spurred his horse toward the outlaws, staying shoulder to shoulder with Sturgeon and another soldier.
“There’s the camp,” Sturgeon said. In a stentorian voice, he cried, “Charge!”
The soldiers galloped down on the camp. One man at the fire looked up, startled. He shoved back his serape and pulled up a sawed-off shotgun carried around his shoulder on a leather strap. Both barrels exploded, sending buckshot into the soldier at the far end of the skirmish line. Then the bandito died as half a dozen soldiers opened fire with their carbines. The attack carried through the camp. Hooves kicked up dust and coals, obscuring everything.
“Where’re the others?” Barker shouted over the tumult of the attack.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the howitzer fired. The shell crashed through the left flank and killed one soldier. The shrapnel took down another’s horse and forced Barker to fight to keep his mare from rearing. The horse spun about, hooves fighting the air. When Barker regained control, he saw that Sturgeon had mustered his troops and continued the attack.
Barker looked around and saw only the dead soldier and another one wounded. The rest had surged past. He waited for a second, expecting a new blast from the cannon, but it never came.
The roar had died down, so he could plainly hear sporadic rifle fire. Mingled with it were the duller reports of pistols. Barker yanked out his pistol and made his way toward the fight by tracking the foot-long tongues of flame from rapidly firing rifles.
“Got one. The rest are running!”
Barker didn’t know who had spoken, and it didn’t matter. It was one of Sturgeon’s men. The dust began to settle, and through the gloom he saw two of the buffalo soldiers swinging the howitzer about, aiming it down the trail at the fleeing banditos. Barker started to cry out to stop them, then any warning was swallowed by the throaty roar of the small cannon’s discharge.
“Got ’em. Got ’em both!”
Barker stared in horror at the weeds burning alongside the trail where the artillery shell had struck. These might have been horse soldiers, but they also were good enough artillerists to have dropped the shell in exactly the right spot for maximum damage.
“They were lucky,” Sturgeon said. “Sometimes, that’s better’n being good.” The sergeant slapped Barker on the shoulder, laughed, and rode off to assemble his men. They had to make a sweep of the area to be sure they had killed all the outlaws.
“Nate,” he said in a voice so low it threatened to choke him.
The two soldiers who had fired the cannon were actively working to swing it back around and examine it. One looked up and smiled.
“They didn’t harm it none, suh.”
“I can see that they didn’t,” Barker said, his returning smile weak.
“Marshal, Marshal! We got all of ’em if you want to see.”
Barker dismounted and walked slowly to the spot where Sergeant Sturgeon’s men had laid the four dead outlaws. The one from the camp looked as if he were sleeping. The one killed at the cannon was cut up from a half dozen carbine rounds that had stopped his career as a gun crewman. The other two were in pieces. Only the serapes they had worn showed any connection between them.
“You recognize any of them?” Sturgeon asked.
Barker forced himself to look from their wounds to the slack faces. He sucked in his breath after examining the fourth outlaw.
“I don’t know any of them.” And he didn’t. Nate wasn’t one of the dead. He blurted out the question before he could stop himself. “Was there a fifth road agent?”
“Didn’t see him during the fight, if there was any other,” said Sturgeon. “Why are you thinkin’ there was another?”
Barker wrestled with the answer. If Nate had escaped, he might reach Mexico and live out his life in peace, the law not chasing him down. But he had killed so many. The ache in the middle of Barker’s back returned as a counterpoint to any hint of leniency. His son had done terrible things and deserved to be sent to prison for them. And he was a lawman entrusted by the United States of America to enforce the law. Nothing in his oath said “except your son.”
“Have a scout make a circuit of the camp to see.”
Sturgeon sent the scout out and then tended to hitching the howitzer carriage to the team of horses and being certain the caisson was properly attached for easy hauling.
“Getting back the cannon will make Colonel Tomasson real happy. I suspect by now he has run down the Sonora Kid and captured the rest of the gang. This is a really fine day, yes, sir.”
Barker watched as the soldiers slung the bodies over the caisson to return them to Fort Selden for burial. The soldier who had died was not placed with the outlaws. Instead, his body was draped over one of the outlaws’ horses and then lashed into place. Burial here made more sense, but Barker knew the reason for returning both the outlaws and the soldier to the fort.
The cavalry did not leave behind their dead and wounded. And Tomasson wanted to gloat over the deaths of the banditos, possibly having pictures taken. Reporters would be notified and the telegraph would sizzle with the news until even General Sherman acknowledged the feat.
“Sarge,” called the scout, riding up. “You ain’t gonna believe this, but there was one of them killers that got away.”
Barker stood a little straighter. Nate had escaped. Again.
24
“YOU SHOULDN’T GO OFF BY YOURSELF LIKE THIS, Marshal,” Sergeant Sturgeon said, frowning. “Let the bandito go. He’s got a half day’s start on you.” The soldier pointed to the sun just poking up over the distant high canyon wall.
“It’s ... the Sonora Kid.”
“Colonel Tomasson said the Kid would ride with the big part of his gang, down the other canyon. You ride with us and you’ll find that he’s got the Sonora Kid in custody—or maybe he killed him.”
Barker shook his head. It wasn’t that way. Nate would have stayed with the howitzer because the most killing could be done with that weapon. When the soldiers overran the cannon so fast, he didn’t have any choice but to run. Once more, Nate had sacrificed his men for his own safety.
“I’ve got to get him. It’s my job.”
“It’ll kill you, Marshal, it’ll kill you dead.”
“It already has,” Barker said. He took what ammo and supplies that he could from the buffalo soldiers, then watched them rattle off with the howitzer and its caisson. In minutes he stood alone. The sun warmed the side of his face. He turned slowly so the sun applied some soothing heat to his back, then he bent, heaved his gear up, and saddled his horse. He patted the mare’s neck. She had been a loyal, constant companion. More than his own family because he spent more time on the trail than at home.
That was his job.
Tracking down the Sonora Kid was a disagreeable part of that job, too.
He rode at a q
uick walk, making sure he didn’t miss a single bit of spoor along the trail. Now and then he saw where Nate had passed by. A freshly broken twig, a hoof-print, piles of horse manure—he didn’t miss a bit of it as he hurried along the trail that wandered through the canyon and finally opened out into a broad valley. The grass was sparse, and the stream he had followed down the canyon had run dry. The summer heat became even more oppressive, if that was possible, now that he was out of the canyon.
Barker slowly studied the terrain. Canyons from the north fed into this long, wide valley, but he doubted Nate had backtracked. Losing his entire gang would have spooked him. He’d hightail it for Mexico, where he could recruit more bandoleros and return to New Mexico Territory to prey on the stagecoaches and even the towns. Stealing the howitzer had shown Barker what his son sought most of all. Blood. More blood.
He might sate that bloodlust in Mexico, but Barker doubted it. The footprint in the middle of his back showed why Nate kept returning and why he escalated his butchery. He wanted to prove something to his pa. Barker held back tears as he wondered what he had done to make his son hate him with such venom.
Barker rode slowly to the middle of the sere valley and took his time to survey it. If he followed the lay of the land and continued south, that would eventually lead to Mexico. That was where Nate was going. He felt it. And less than an hour later, he saw evidence of a recent traveler. A fire had been built, then snuffed out. All around lay the scattered remnants of a hasty meal. Some flakes of oatmeal. Discolored ground hinting that coffee dregs had been tossed into the dry earth. The ground was cut up by a horse’s hooves. With the wind that blew down this valley, evidenced by the way the trees all flagged northward, the man responsible had to be only hours ahead.
Barker ate in the saddle, drank what he dared of his precious water, and kept riding. He had a job to do.
By late afternoon he’d spotted a rider in the distance. The man wore a sombrero and rode hunched forward, as if he was injured. Barker’s heart jumped when he considered that Nate might have been wounded in the fight, more than the leg wound he had sustained in Mesilla. For whatever reason, he hadn’t thought of that before. Barker urged his horse to a quicker gait, seeing that Nate was heading directly for the border through San Luis Pass. He didn’t have a good idea where that might lead, but it was close, very close to Mexico. Barker’s badge wasn’t any good in another country.
Whether Nate saw his pursuit or he just got lucky, he disappeared from sight. Barker whipped his horse and galloped for a spell, then slowed, walked the horse to rest it, and finally topped a rise. He spotted Nate immediately. Barker drew his rifle and sighted down the barrel, but his aim wavered. A thousand conflicting thoughts burned in his head. The range was too great. The barrel was short for such a long shot. He wasn’t that much of a marksman.
He was pointing the rifle at Nate Barker.
He lowered the rifle and headed due south, toward the pass leading into Mexico.
Twice he had lost track of Nate and twice he had found the trail again. Barker’s Spanish wasn’t the best, but he got by, asking the farmers along the way if they had seen a man wearing a sombrero with a serape thrown over his shoulder. He thought this might be a foolish question, but each of the campesinos he asked had seen such a rider, and that kept him moving until he reached San Miguelito. The town looked to be the same size as Mesilla but without the large number of saloons. Only one cantina along the main road into town looked promising.
Riding behind the cantina, Barker found Nate’s horse. He had spied the animal, though from the rear, for four days and knew it as well as he did any saddle horse. He checked the saddlebags, but they were mostly empty. Then he heard a ruckus inside the cantina.
It had to be Nate kicking up a fuss over some slight, real or imagined.
Barker dismounted, drew the cavalry pistol, and walked into the dimly lit cantina. It smelled of stale beer and pungent pulque. The air was cooler but heavy with smoke. Four caballeros smoked so hard, their heads disappeared in the clouds from their cigars. But Barker had eyes only for one man. At the bar, his back to the door, a man banged his fist on the bar. His sombrero was tossed back and hung in the middle of his back by a string. The serape over his right shoulder drew Barker’s attention because he remembered the first outlaw in the camp and the shotgun he had carried slung around his shoulder. The serape might hide another scattergun.
Barker walked slowly. Something in his manner caused everyone in the cantina to fall silent—except Nate.
“Deaf? Tequila!”
Barker lifted the pistol, cocked it, and laid the muzzle against the man’s head.
“I’ll shoot if you move so much as a muscle, Nate.”
“What is this?” The man threw up his hands, and Barker swung, catching him alongside the head with the barrel. Buffaloed, the man dropped to hands and knees. Barker reached under the serape and pulled out a six-shooter.
“You’re under arrest.”
“Why is this, gringo?” The man looking up at him wasn’t Nate Barker.
Taken aback, he said nothing for a moment.
“You are the marshal from Nuevo Mexico.”
“You’re wearing the sombrero and serape,” Barker said, fighting against his shock. “You’re the Sonora Kid?”
“Ha! Do you hear this man? He thinks I am the Sonora Kid! Why not? I am Hector Rodriguez y Gomez, the greatest bandit in all Mexico! You take me back for a big reward?”
“You stole the howitzer?”
“Es verdad. I fired it twice! The posse died. Ah, you were with the posse? Why did you not die, too?”
Barker grabbed Rodriguez by the front of his shirt and pulled him to his feet, spun, and shoved hard to get him moving outside. The others in the cantina pushed away from their tables and reached for their six-shooters.
“Don’t,” Barker said, slowly moving the pistol in a wide arc that took in all the men. When he saw he wasn’t going to bluff them, he fired. The bottle of tequila in the barkeep’s hand exploded, showering him with glass and booze. “That could be your head.” He grabbed again to keep Rodriguez from running.
Outside in the hot sun, he shoved the Mexican around to the rear of the building, cocked his pistol, and stuck it into the man’s face.
“Easy question. Are you the Sonora Kid?”
Rodriguez’s eyes went wide with fear. Barker saw how he wanted to lie, to boast that he was, but there was the question of what would happen. He might die if he lied or if he told the truth. Face as white as a ghost, Rodriguez croaked out, “No. I am not the Sonora Kid. He is a mad-man, a killer, todo loco!”
Barker drew back a half pace, wondering what he ought to do. Rodriguez had been a member of the gang Nate rode with. There wasn’t much question about that, and for his part in the killings he ought to stand trial. He had even confessed to firing the howitzer and killing several of the posse. That alone was reason for Barker to take him back to stand trial.
But it also meant that he had to stop lying to himself. Even with the evidence of Nate’s boot in the middle of his back, he had held out a sliver of hope that the wild youth had lied about being the Sonora Kid. The evidence now was too great. Not only had Nate confessed, but everyone else in his gang who might have been the leader was dead or captured.
“Into the saddle. We’re going back across the border.”
“You are a lawman there, not here,” Rodriguez said loudly. That tipped Barker off to what was happening. He spun, pressed hard into the adobe wall, and fired. A man who had been sneaking up from behind grabbed his arm, forcing him to drop a wicked knife. Barker didn’t linger on the sight of the blood pumping from the man’s arm. He turned back, six-gun cocked again, and aimed at Rodriguez.
“Mount up. We got a long ride ahead of us.”
Rodriguez’s horse died under him just as they crossed into the U.S. For one of them, it was an especially long walk to Fort Selden.
“SHOOT ME. I WILL NOT TAKE ANOTHER STEP,” THE Mexic
an moaned.
“Tell me again,” Barker demanded. “Tell me and we can rest. For a few minutes.”
Rodriguez collapsed and glared up at the marshal. He would have spit, but his mouth was too dry. Barker took a swig of water, then handed the canteen to the outlaw. Rodriguez made a face but did not spit. The day was too hot.
“The vaquero, the one you call the vaquero,” the outlaw said. “He was first the Sonora Kid. He and Nate were.... simpatico.”
“Two peas in a pod,” Barker said, wondering if the story would be different this time. He had forced Rodriguez to tell him what he could since leaving Mexico. It always came out the same. The vaquero had recruited Nate—and it had not taken much effort. The lure of easy money had been too much. Worse, Nate’s taste for blood had been whetted after the first stage robbery. He, not any of the others in the gang, had taken the watch.
“I don know this peas,” Rodriguez said. He finished the water, then threw aside the canteen. Barker retrieved it. They were days from the fort now. The end of the road.
“Nate killed him and became the Sonora Kid. He took over his reputation.”
“Sí,” Rodriguez said in disgust. “But he soon built the reputation. He killed to become the Sonora Kid—and his every instant after the killing, he was the Sonora Kid. His Spanish was muy malo, even for a gringo. He killed men for telling him this.”
Barker heaved a sigh and closed his eyes for a moment against the sun. He had forced Rodriguez to repeat the story many times, and each time the ending was the same. Nate had become the Sonora Kid. He hadn’t even been content making his own reputation and had stolen one.
“So he went with the rest of the gang? Down the other canyon?”
“I fired the howitzer,” Rodriguez said with some pride. “The Kid, he approved. He left me in charge of the big gun.”
“While he escaped, knowing you couldn’t drag the cannon fast enough to escape the soldiers,” Barker said. Rodriguez shrugged. “He was likely killed. The colonel is a persistent man.”
The Sonora Noose Page 22