Trail to Cottonwood Falls

by Ralph Compton

  “Easy. Someone out there will have seen them driving horses. They will tell us. Once they got away from here they’ll move in the daylight.”

  “Should we rest?” she asked.

  Ed shook his head. “It’s going to be tough from here on. Jorge can show you home.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “No way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He held out the cup and Tina refilled it. “It won’t be nice.”

  “I didn’t come for a picnic.”

  “Good.” He combed his hair back and replaced his hat. “It won’t be any picnic, I can guarantee you.”

  Chapter 6

  Late that afternoon they found a place where the rustlers had penned the horses in a set of weather-blackened pens that belonged to some ranch and were only used for roundups. The post-walled jacal with the grass roof Ed discovered contained some freshly discarded cans of tomatoes. Built from posts driven in the ground, then roofed, the single room had only some bed frames and crude wooden crates for furniture, and all their cooking had been done outside at a fireplace made of rocks and mortar under a ramada with a shingle roof—one of the few signs of modern man. Ed noted a stack of split firewood and smiled as he stood with his hand on the sturdy corner post holding up the shingle roof.

  “Whose place is this?” Unita asked, dismounting.

  “I’m not sure. But we won’t hurt it.”

  “What next?” She removed her hat and mopped her face on a kerchief.

  “Put the horses up. Make a fire and cook something, sleep a few hours, then head out.”

  She studied him, and then frowned. “You look tired.”

  “Cap’n Jack always said to us rangers, ‘You boys can sleep all day when this is over.’ ”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Fifteen when I helped chase down my first bunch of rustlers.” He jerked the latigos free on his saddle, then lifted it and the sweaty pads and held them in his hands. “I’ll do that for you.”

  “I can do it. I saw you wince.”

  “Oh—” He shrugged his shoulders and lugged the saddle over to the jacal before dumping it on the horn and spreading the blankets out to dry.

  “Fifteen?” she asked.

  He turned and nodded to her. “I grew up fast on that chase. A week in the saddle and we caught them.”

  She put down her pack beside his and nodded for him to continue.

  “We caught them this side of the Rio Bravo. Four boys, I was the youngest, and a wiry Cap’n Jack who’d fought with Houston at San Jacinto. We took on seven Mexican bandits.”

  “Was it tough?”

  “Cap said, ‘Kid, when you see your first man over a gun barrel there is a moment you will hesitate. In that uno momento he will kill you—savvy?’ ”

  “And?”

  “About fifteen minutes later, when we hit their camp at dawn, this burly bandit came right at me. Roaring like a grizzly and seeing this weak-kneed kid holding a nine-pound Walker Colt pointed with both hands at him, he laughed. That’s how he went out of this world—laughing. I blew his head off.”

  She nodded at Ed as Ramon gathered the horses and took them to water. “Guess we better make a fire and cook some food. How far ahead are they?”

  He looked at the blazing sun dying in the west. “Couple of days, but they’ll slow up when they figure that there’s no immediate pursuit. Let their guard down. We’ll need that.”

  “I can’t believe that a fifteen-year-old boy took on a killer and won.” She pushed off her hat, shook loose her hair, and looked away. “You still running from that?”

  “No, he was a worthless piece of shit. I never regretted his kind dying. They needed what they got. It was the kids got killed in stampedes, horse wrecks, drowned in swollen rivers, and got themselves shot by some worthless piece of humanity without any respect for life.”

  She looked at him with a hurt expression. “You can’t be the blame for all of that.”

  He nodded grimly. “I am. I hired ’em.”

  “You ever taken a herd north you didn’t lose someone?”

  He looked at his dusty boot toes and shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  “But others have?”

  “I never was that lucky.”

  She dropped to her knees and began to build a fire in the structure. The tinder piled, she ignited it with a torpedo match. When the flames began to lick up through it she nodded. He went off to fill the coffeepot and canvas water pail.

  A coyote cut down on the ridge, and he smiled at his mournful song. First time in a long time he’d heard one up close and out like this. Ramon began working the hand pump to fill the trough, and Ed filled the pot and pail from the pipe spout.

  “Warm evening, huh?” the youth asked.

  “Bet in two days we’re hugging blankets and wearing slickers.”

  “Why, Senor?”

  “Them thin, high clouds pushing in.”

  The youth nodded in the twilight and worked the pump harder. Ed washed his face and hands in the tank before going back to camp. The cool water revived him some. Back in camp, he set the pot on the grill. She nodded in approval, busy slivering some ham into a skillet.

  He swept up the other canvas pail, and went back to the source for more water for her. He and Ramon returned together. The horses all had on feedbags and were crunching corn over the crickets’ slow orchestration.

  Her thick ham-flour gravy over some day-old biscuits she’d brought along filled them before they turned in. He had to admit it was better than most makeshift meals he’d gulped down in times past on such pursuits. Before midnight he planned to get them up and on the trail. So far the rustlers had avoided any settlements, or even ranches. He really wanted an ID on them and how many there were. He imagined four from the foot tracks. Three wore moccasins without heels. That didn’t mean Indians. Homemade moccasins were easier on your feet than store-bought boots. Ed’s came from a man called Hyer in Kansas. The second pair of to-fit boots he’d ever owned.

  He awoke close to midnight. He checked the Big Dipper for the time, then dumped out his boots and pulled them on. He squatted close to Unita and looked at her form under the blankets. He hated to wake her but reached out and touched her shoulder. “Time to go again.”

  “Sure—” She sat up bleary-eyed in the starlight and nodded that she was awake. “I know—we can sleep all day when this is over.”

  He smiled and went to the fire’s ashes to stir up some heat for the coffee and leftovers. Soon he had flames licking up and she joined him under a blanket. “Cold this morning.”

  “Be a norther in here in a couple of days.”

  “Time for one. I just hate them.”

  He agreed with her and, with things cooking, went off to help Ramon saddle the stock. The horses ready, they washed their hands and came back to squat in the fire’s reflective heat and eat more of the delicious gravy and biscuits. They soon broke camp and rode south following the dim back road the rustlers had chosen.

  The sun came over the horizon with a cold light and found them in a greasewood sea. He huddled under his blanket and noted that the boy had dug out a serape. Unita had her wrap, too. The tracks of the stolen horses began to look familiar to him.

  Midday, some pale cottonwoods appeared in the distance. The sight of the trees meant water. They drew near, and signs of inhabitants began to appear around a cluster of jacals: low smoke from cooking fires, the shrill voices of children. Ed made certain the .44 on his hip wore caps on each cylinder, then reholstered it. The revolver felt comfortable in his grasp. One never knew when he’d need it.

  A woman pointed in their direction and several dogs barked. A man under a sombrero came out and, arms folded over his chest, looked ready to block their way.

  “Go easy,” Ed said to Unita and Ramon, appraising the situation. This person looked defiant, and he decided they should stay there while he rode in to check the waiting man out. He swung his right hand aside as a sign for them to stop. “Wait here.” />
  “Be careful,” she said.

  “I will.” He booted the roan ahead and checked the jacals for any sign of a sniper or his horses.

  “Buenos dias,” the swarthy-faced man said.

  “The same to you, Senor.” He’d seen from their tracks that the horses had been driven into this place.

  “What brings you to my rancheria?” The man’s left eye had a lazy lid and drooped, so he peered hard out of his right one.

  “Oh, someone stole my stallion and ten mares.”

  The man shook his head. “I have never seen ten head and a stallion.”

  Ed nodded, rubbed his palms on the tops of his pants legs, and studied the man hard. “Mi amigo, perhaps you need to have a doctor check your eyes.”

  “Why?” he growled. His face turned black with anger.

  “Those caballeros came right through here.”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  “I came here in peace.” Nodding, Ed looked around as if appraising his place. “You have many women and children about this rancheria. I want none of them hurt, but I could kill you in the blink of an eye. Who were these men who took my horses?” His rising temper made his heart thump under his breastbone. This bully had better reconsider his lying or he’d be sprouting some cheap sod on his grave.

  “I don’t know—”

  “Cut the crap. I have rode a long ways and my patience is short.”

  “Lonzo Alvarez. . . .”

  Ed bobbed his head. He had heard of this bandit. “What’s your name?”

  “Juan Sanchez.”

  “Juan, I would buy some food for my compañeros.

  And a little grain for my horses if you can sell me some?”

  The man swallowed. “Don’t tell that hombre I told you his name.”

  “He won’t learn nothing from me.”

  Sanchez gave a toss of his head for them to come in and join Ed. “Tell them to come. Marie, Juanita, fix some food. We have guests.” Turning back, he nodded to Ed. “Your name is?”

  “Ed Wright. I live on Red Wolf Creek. That is Senora Nance and the boy is Ramon.”

  “Gracias,” he said. He swept off his hat and bowed for Unita’s passing.

  “He has corn for the horses,” Ed said to Ramon.

  The boy acknowledged his words and took Unita’s horse’s reins when she dismounted. Two of the older women came and talked to her in Spanish, inviting her in their casa. She took off her hat and looked back to him, and he motioned it would be all right.

  “Alvarez is a killer,” Juan said under his breath, and frowned as if concerned with what he saw. “You have an unarmed boy and a fine lady with you to catch him?”

  “I’m an ex-ranger.”

  The man dropped his gaze to the sandy ground as they walked to the water trough and he let Ed drink his fill.

  “I have heard they only send one ranger?”

  Ed nodded. “One problem, one ranger.”

  “But Alvarez has some tough men.”

  “How many?”

  “Two mean ones, as he is, and a boy.”

  “These men, are they his kin?”

  “One is his brother Quatro. The other one, Tigre, is a breed. The boy is yellow-headed and has blue eyes. I think he was a Comanche captive.”

  Ed frowned and shook his head. There were lots of white captives who grew up to become tribal members. “You learn his name?”

  “They call him Blondie. He only speaks bad Spanish. No savvy el English.”

  Ed agreed, loosened the girth and hitched Blue with the others. “Does Alvarez have a place this side of the border?”

  “There is a saloon and whorehouse at Sheba. He stops there often to see a puta.”

  “How far?”

  “Ten miles.”

  Ed nodded. By his calculation, they could be at this place called Sheba by dark. Maybe Alvarez would still be there. His hopes rose.

  “Come, they will have the food ready.”

  “Corn for my horses?”

  “Bring them. I will get some,” Juan said to Ramon and they went toward the jacals.

  “How many families live here?” Ed asked, looking around. Several bare-bottomed, dark-eyed children peered hard at them from “safe” places.

  “Three—both of my brothers were killed by bandits. So I have a wife and two widows to care for.”

  “That’s a big chore.”

  “Sίί, a big chore.”

  When they joined the women, Unita met him. “These women say that the leader of the ones who took your horses is a very mean man. He has two pistoleros, too.”

  “Alvarez,” he said under his breath.

  She nodded, looking very seriously at him. “They say he has killed many men.”

  “Reckon he’s got a funeral suit picked out?”

  “It isn’t a time to be funny. There are three or four tough men down there.”

  “We’ll see when the time comes.”

  “They may only be ten miles away.”

  He pursed his lips and bobbed his head. “You can only cross rivers when you get to them.”

  “Can you find any help?”

  “Doubt it. All these people fear him too much to be any help.”

  “Maybe a little fear on your part might be in order . . . She has our food ready.” Unita indicated the woman bringing them trays piled high with their dinner.

  “Yes. Time to eat,” he said, grateful to have the diversion. With nothing in concrete, he planned to handle Alvarez and his bunch of cutthroats as things presented themselves. No doubt this would not be Unita’s way, but he knew the ground Cap’n Jack would cover—separate them first, disable as many as possible, then put down the rest.

  They sat on a blanket and ate. The three women brought them fresh coffee and fussed over them. Two of them were very pregnant, and the third carried a new baby in her arm.

  “Who are they?” she asked under her breath.

  “One’s his wife. The others are his brothers’ widows.”

  “How long’ve they been widows?”

  “He said he had a big job.”

  Unita smirked and nodded. “Big job.”

  After the meal, he paid the man and they rode on. In no hurry to reach Sheba in the daylight, Ed set a leisurely pace moving south. So busy thinking about Alvarez, he’d lost track of many things. All the things Cap’n Jack taught him and that they did as rangers filled his thoughts.

  “You’ve ever been to this place?” she asked, breaking into his concentration.

  “No, but we can scout it.”

  “Clouds are coming, like you say.” Ramon pointed out the gathering bank in the north.

  “You bet, hombre. It may be cold driving them broomtails home.”

  Ramon smiled. “I have never been so far from home.”

  “Well, you can see that it ain’t worth much.”

  “Jorge, he says the hills of Texas are as pretty as the world can get.”

  “He hasn’t told you a lie,” Unita put in.

  “I believed him, Senora. Now I really believe him.”

  After sundown, they reined up on a rise. The lights in the small community flickered in the darkness. He was satisfied that one source came from the cantina and house of pleasure—the biggest in the settlement. Ed turned his ear. A stud horse was screaming—Ten Bears.

  “That’s him,” Ramon said, excited.

  Wright nodded and turned in the saddle toward Unita. “We’ve caught up with them.”

  “What now?”

  “We go kill us some horse thieves. Get our stock and go home.”

  “That easy?”

  “That easy.”

  Chapter 7

  “How many guards are at the corral?” Unita whispered in the darkness.

  “Ramon and I saw two. One’s the blond captive boy, and the other a breed. He’s the armed one.” He glanced over and Ramon nodded.

  “I get the drop on the breed. You two can bluff the boy, I think. Remember he only speaks
Spanish, and not good. He looks lost with them to me.” Ed shook his head. “Where in the hell they got him, I have no idea.”

  “Can you use the rifle?” she asked.

  “Sure. You can take the pistol. It’s loaded. But any shot will warn the others and they’ll come out shooting, so try not to use it.” He looked hard at her. His idea was to prune down the number of rustlers so he could handle the rest.

  “I understand,” she said, a ring of impatience in her voice.

  He frowned at her affront, but went on. “Good. I’ll go around and take the breed. You two watch, and get the boy.”

  The plan set, he started around the rough-sided shed to circle the pens. This breed, Tigre, might be the one to realize he was coming around at him, but that was a chance he had to take. Breeds could be tough, alert sentries, but others were incompetent and lazy. He’d looked pretty bored when Ed spied on him earlier. Both he and the boy were squatted by a small fire, busy cooking and, except for the breed wearing a cartridge belt slung over his shoulder, neither showed lots of fight in them. Cap’n Jack had said, never underestimate your enemies. Go in prepared for the worst.

  Ed stopped and knelt on one knee. The smell of the fire’s smoke on the soft night wind filled his nose, and he heard the two talking in Spanish. Ed cocked the hammer back on the rifle and rose to his near six-foot height.

  “Grab some sky!” he ordered in Spanish. He walked up on them, the rifle butt stuck hard in his hip, his finger on the trigger.

  With his back to Ed, the breed’s hand shot to his holster. But when he looked up into the face of the captive, who was putting up his hands, he must have reconsidered because he raised his dark hands in the reflection of the red light of the fire.

  Ed moved in swiftly, and nodded as Ramon took the captive’s hands down and then tied them behind his back.

  “On your knees and prepare to die,” Ed ordered the breed.

  The breed hurried to the ground, holding his hands on his hat. “Mother of God, who are you?”

  “The man owns those ponies.”

  “How did you find us?”

  “Your tracks, stupid. Who’s over in the saloon?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ed jammed the muzzle of the rifle to his neck. “That help your memory?”