by Don Travis
“Find shelter on another rock.”
“The saloon?”
“Nope. We’ll make our stand at the jail, podnuh.”
If Paul noticed my puny attempt at humor, he didn’t acknowledge it; he merely took off across the plaza. He had scaled the boulder before I moved. I tossed him the rifle and then scrambled atop the rock. He gave me a hand up the last few feet.
Eons of wind and water had scoured the dome forming the jailhouse roof, leaving it slightly depressed in the center. The only problem was that the hotel stood taller. Anyone up there would have us at his mercy.
We watched and waited. The three thugs were taking their own sweet time getting here. I didn’t blame them. The walls they faced were tall and straight and without handholds. I doubted they could scale the hotel from the outside even by standing on one another’s shoulders. No, they would have to enter between the two towering rocks we’d called the city gate. For the first few seconds, they’d have no protection. Not an appealing prospect. Time stretched out; the adrenaline rush abated, leaving me slightly nauseated and allowing me to notice things that had eluded me before. My right thigh, where I’d once caught a killer’s bullet, throbbed with phantom pain. The sun beat down on us mercilessly. I’d lost my hat somewhere along the line—probably somewhere up on the hotel. My tongue was thick with thirst. My sweat-soaked shirt clung to my back. We were no better off than the traficantes. Our canteens were on the fleeing horses.
“Don’t have a drink on you, do you?” Paul asked. “Sure could use one.”
“No, but there’s a windmill about a quarter of a mile north of us.”
“Probably water closer than that right under us, but I have the same problem with it. No way to get to it. Isn’t it about time for the cavalry to arrive?”
“I don’t know how the Border Patrol operates. I don’t know if they show up in helicopters, vans, or by horseback. Shhh!” I laid a warning hand on his arm.
A shadow hesitated in the opening between the two monoliths forming the gate. Finally a stocky, bearded man slipped cautiously into the plaza. A large, battered hat almost hid his eyes as he scanned the clearing before turning to the hotel. Paul glanced at me, but I waited. If his compadres were coming, I wanted them all where I could see them. As the smuggler stood looking around warily, I watched the gate for another shadow. I would only get off one burst before they scattered.
Then he took me by surprise. He quickly backed toward the jail. Before I could react, he passed out of sight below us. Paul met my gaze, eyes wide. I pointed to the revolver in his hand. He nodded his understanding. If the man attempted to scale the boulder, Paul would deal with him.
Moments later, grunts and scraping noises confirmed the smuggler’s intention. Muffled shouts came from somewhere out of our sight. His friends were trying to hold our attention while he got into position. Apparently they didn’t realize the hotel loomed over the jailhouse.
A sliding noise. A low curse. More scraping sounds. Leather soles on stone. The man had almost reached the top now. At any minute I expected to see the brim of his hat. Paul slipped silently around me and positioned himself directly in front of where the man would appear. A left hand slapped the top of the boulder. An AK-47 appeared next, clutched in the right fist.
When the man’s head appeared, his eyes went wide as Paul calmly pulled the rifle from his grasp and clubbed him with the butt of the revolver. Without a sound, the man dropped to the floor of the small canyon.
The next surprise was theirs. The horsemen had returned, or at least one had. His pinto bolted through the gate, its rider brandishing a pistol. Within a second he spotted his friend on the ground and glanced up. His revolver roared, and something hot passed near my right ear before I ducked out of sight. Paul’s automatic rifle stuttered.
“Got him!” he yelled triumphantly. He blinked slowly. “Got… him. Oh God, I killed a man.”
“No, but you still can, if you want to.” I nodded toward the smuggler. He’d been knocked from the saddle and was trying to crawl to the gate. Unsure how badly the bozo was hurt, I pulled Paul down out of sight. “Let him go. We just have to survive this long enough for the BP to get here.”
“If they even bother to come,” Paul said dryly. “Maybe they don’t do rescues on the Sabbath.”
“Keep a watch for the coyotes. Especially on the hotel roof. If they get up there, we’re in trouble.”
I eased down out of sight and hit my Redial button to place another call to the BP. I got a different agent, but he knew about the situation. I reported the attack, including the live fire. He told me two teams were on the way, one by air and one by ground. I just hoped we were still alive and kicking when they got here.
As I closed the call, the sound of sustained gunfire startled me. What was happening? Had the BP arrived? I stuck my head over the parapet. Little puffs of dust peppered the sandy floor of the empty plaza—as if it were raining.
Oh hell. It was! It was raining lead pellets, and that deadly shower started to fall on the jailhouse roof. I grabbed Paul’s arm, literally hauled him over me, and pushed him to the west end of the parapet. “Jump! For God’s sake, jump!”
He didn’t ask questions. He disappeared over the edge. As I followed, the top of the rock sounded like a roof under assault by a thunderstorm. Something stung my hand. A stone shard brought blood. Without looking, I slipped over the edge and slid down the side, landing in the dirt with a bone-crunching thud. My knees collapsed. I caught myself on my palms. Paul grabbed me and pressed us both against the side of the rock.
The little alleyway where I had found signs of a camp provided as much shelter as we would find in this barren, godforsaken place. The gunshots were less uniform now, more uncertain as clips ran out of ammunition.
“What the hell’s going on?” Paul gasped.
“Letting that guy you knocked out of the saddle get away was a mistake. He told them we’d moved from the roof of the hotel. Now they’re firing into the air, letting the bullets fall straight down. Not very accurate, but eventually one of them might find its mark.”
“Shit, can you do that? Then let’s give it back to them.” He raised his rifle.
I yanked the barrel down. “No. Maybe they’ll think they got us and go about their business.”
The firestorm came to a ragged end. The men were closer now. We could hear shouted orders and answering voices. Then, over it all, I heard something else. The clatter of a chopper. The traficantes heard it too, judging from all the excited shouting.
Paul leaned his head back against the boulder. “I’ve seen this movie. That’s John Wayne out there, isn’t it? Wish I had a bugle. I’d play ‘Charge.’”
I laughed. He sputtered and then burst out laughing. We snorted like a couple of hysterical hyenas. Abruptly we sobered and looked at one another sheepishly.
“You hear that?” Paul asked.
“Hear what?”
“Nothing. There’s no shooting.”
“The bad guys are headed for home.”
“So why don’t the good guys scoop them up? You know, shoot them, or at least take them into custody.”
“They might catch the wounded guys, but the BP won’t fire on anyone unless they’re fired on first.”
“That’s a shitty way to fight a war.”
“Let’s try to get out of here without being shot by anybody. They might not fire on illegals, but I’m not so sure about how sacred our hides are.”
We emerged from the shaded alley into a bright, sunlit plaza streaked with black shadows. The man Paul had clubbed still lay at the base of the jailhouse. I took a closer look. Dead. A victim of his fellow smugglers’ blind firing.
“Hold it!” a loud voice ordered. “This is the Border Patrol. Drop your weapons. Down on the ground, face-first.” Then he repeated the words in Spanish.
Chapter 18
WE FELL to our knees and went prone like a trained gymnastics team… in unison.
Within seconds a gr
oup of very aggressive BP Special Ops in uniforms and armor surrounded us and demanded to know who we were. In the background I heard someone giving military-style orders to the remainder of the men sweeping through the City. Without moving from the prone position, I told them we’d made the call warning of the incursion. A desert-camo-uniformed man wearing a first lieutenant’s silver bar instructed two of his team to take us to the Lazy M headquarters. They promptly pulled us to our feet and deposited us in the back of a large helicopter. The man riding shotgun kept an eagle eye on the ground below us, his automatic rifle at the ready, as we raced back to the ranch house.
Luis and Maria met us when we exited the chopper before it pulled away and headed for the City. Even though their eyes burned with curiosity, the couple said nothing except that Bert and the señora were on the way back to the ranch headquarters. That was all right with me. In a few minutes, we would be answering a whole host of questions for the Border Patrol team commander. We took advantage of the delay to go upstairs and clean up.
After washing away the worst of the dirt and grit, I met Paul in the hallway outside our rooms. His first words told me he had come off his adrenaline high.
“Are you sure I didn’t kill that guy I shot?”
“I’m sure. And you aren’t responsible for the one who got shot by his own men, so don’t give it another thought.” I saw he hadn’t considered that possibility and was sorry I’d opened my big mouth.
A commotion in the foyer told me the reception team had arrived. We went downstairs and met the BP team leader in the hallway talking to Millicent and Bert. The agent’s name tag read Ramirez. This must be the man who took my initial call. In a quick, no-nonsense report, he let us know the only people they’d netted were the frightened and bewildered illegal immigrants and one of the wounded coyotes. The rest, including the one who had acted as leader, escaped back over the border.
Millicent grasped my arm. “Are you two okay?”
“We’re fine,” I assured her. “Juiced up a little. But we’re fine.”
As Millicent ushered us into the big common room, I asked Luis if the horses had returned safely. He appeared pleased by my concern as he assured me they had.
I wasn’t surprised to find Deputy Nap O’Brien talking to Bert in the sitting room, but why had no one from the state police showed up? DEA and ATF were also among the missing.
Paul and I took seats on the long divan opposite Millicent, who was flanked by two BP agents—the team leader and his second. I studied Ramirez as he leaned across Millicent to speak to the other agent. Short and stocky, Ramirez, in his midthirties, looked to be a tough customer carrying the entire weight of the border problem on his shoulders. He wore his coal black hair in a Marine-style whitewall. Brown eyes flashed as he scanned the room every few minutes. This was a cautious man who looked for trouble even when there was none. He had an X-shaped scar high on his left cheek that reminded me of the barbed wire that probably caused it. That accounted for the mangled appearance of the first two fingers on his left hand as well.
The other man was Senior Patrol Agent Chill Williams, an athletic black man probably ten years Ramirez’s junior. If his boss represented caution, Williams stood for action. His suppressed energy and impatience surfaced occasionally in an unconscious lifting of his shoulders, almost as if he were twitching.
O’Brien occupied an easy chair at one end of the two facing sofas. Bert claimed a recliner at the other. As soon as everyone was served—iced tea for everyone except Bert, who had a beer—Ramirez kicked things off.
“You want to tell us about it, Mr. Vinson?” He laid a small recorder on the coffee table between us. Although not on a case, I pulled out my own and switched it on.
“Please call me BJ, Officer…. Sorry, but I don’t know much about BP rank and protocol.”
“We’re agents. I’m a Special Operations Supervisor, usually referred to as SOS, but you can call me Randy.” His manner was bluff but not unfriendly.
I led them through our morning in a fair amount of detail. No one spoke except when Paul added a point or two of his own. Ramirez listened, leaning forward on the couch, elbows on his knees. Other than periodically scoping out the room, he steadily stared at me. Williams twitched in silence. Everyone else held motionless other than taking an occasional sip. When I finished, Ramirez eased back on the sofa.
“Chill?” he prompted his companion.
“Mr. Vinson… uh, BJ, there’s something that doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Let me guess. Why the sustained gun battle? Why not just retreat back across the border?”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe shooting their water bags to pieces was a mistake. Perhaps they needed to secure the area and get free access to the well.”
“They had access to the well. It was out of range of your rifles,” Williams said.
Ramirez cleared his throat. “They didn’t know how many of you there were. So far as they knew, you were in sufficient force to deny them water.”
“Unless they were idiots, they knew there were only two of us long before all the serious shooting began.”
“You’re right,” Ramirez said. “I don’t believe water was the problem. There’s another windmill less than ten miles from there, and it’s safely back across the border.”
“Did the Mexican authorities apprehend them from that side?” Paul asked.
“The Mexicans consider this our problem,” Williams said. “They don’t lift a finger.”
“Sometimes we get cooperation,” Ramirez said. “But they would have disappeared before anyone official showed up over there. We apprehended the illegals they abandoned—nine men and one woman. They were thirsty but not desperate.”
“What about the wounded man you caught? Did he shed any light on things?”
“Hasn’t said a word except to ask for medical treatment.”
“How did they get horses across the border? Isn’t there a fence?” Paul asked.
“Plain old barbed wire, which they cut on the way over.”
“If it wasn’t water that brought them after us, what do you think it was? Something in the City? Something hidden there?” Paul asked.
“Possibly,” Ramirez said. “The rest of my team’s checking it out right now.”
“That has to be it,” Millicent said. “What else would make them stand and fight? There must have been a load of drugs hidden there somewhere.”
Ramirez transferred his gaze to me. “Did you recognize any of them?”
“Recognize them? I don’t know anyone around here. How could I recognize anyone? Besides, they were too far away to identify.”
“They probably thought you had binoculars. Are you saying you don’t know anyone down here?”
“Just the people I’ve met on the ranch.”
“But if I understand it correctly, you identified yourselves as Border Patrol,” Williams said. “They thought you were us. Maybe somebody we know.”
Ramirez shook his head. “Even more reason to retreat and try again later. We’ve had run-ins with people from the other side before, but that’s never prompted a major gun battle.”
“Maybe one of the big honchos came along on this run. Somebody who didn’t want to be identified,” Williams suggested.
“Possibly. But why would a big cheese accompany them? They were just bringing over some illegals. It wasn’t like they were crossing with a heavy load of merchandise.” Ramirez addressed his next question to me. “Were they laden down with packs?”
“No.” I hesitated and reconsidered. “The coyotes weren’t carrying anything except light packs. Were the illegal immigrants carrying?”
“They were acting as mules, all right, but there wasn’t enough product to warrant a major figure leading them over. Unless, of course, he just wanted to enter the country without leaving a record. What about the horses? Did they seem to be packing?”
I thought that question over. “They had saddlebags, and they looked full. But
that’s all I can tell you.”
“I didn’t get a good look, but one had a tripod of some kind. Made me think of surveying,” Paul said.
“I don’t understand that shooting straight up in the air maneuver,” Williams said.
“Indians used to do it back in the old days, I hear,” O’Brien said. “Shoot up in the air, and let nature take it from there. Course, they done it with bows and arrows.”
“You can see where arrows are falling, but you can’t see where bullets come down,” Williams said before correcting himself. “But in this terrain, you could see enough dust pimples to adjust your aim.”
“BJ and Paul were costing them too much,” Ramirez said. “So they tried anything they could think of to offset the advantage of their cover. Whoever was in charge had them point their rifles straight up in the air and unload.”
“Waste of good ammo,” Williams said.
“The smugglers had, what—eight or nine weapons?” Ramirez asked.
“Before we took two away from them,” Paul said.
“That still left seven. The gang probably fired somewhere close to a thousand rounds during the whole engagement. Wasteful but effective. It flushed you from cover.”
“Yep, chased us right off the roof… uh, the top of that rock,” I said.
Ramirez grinned, revealing an unexpected sense of humor. “Were you on the hotel or the saloon?”
Paul chuckled. “Started out on the hotel, ended up on the jailhouse roof.”
That got a laugh.
“I figured we were nuts identifying those rocks as buildings,” I said.
Millicent waved a hand. “Everybody does it. As a child I named every rock in that place. I even gave the ones I called ‘houses’ family names.”
The phone at Ramirez’s waist rang. It appeared to be a satellite, not a cellular, phone. He got up and excused himself to walk off toward the windows and answer his call.
“You fired first?” O’Brien asked.
“Yes, but not at them. Kicked up dust well in front of the two horsemen.”