by Jake Logan
Then everything was quickly under a canvas cover and the diamond hitch was thrown on it and drawn tight. Angela ran back inside for a few personal things. Obregón led the saddle and pack animals out into the rising sunlight of the courtyard. In minutes, the three were riding out of the gate before they drew any more attention. Jesús promised to send the Apache after them.
With the way Salazar seemed to know everything, Slocum was sure that someone would report their departure to the bandit leaders, but they had to beat all the rest to the ranchero on the Río Verde. His only hope was that they beat the bandits to this remote ranch and recovered Martina first. He knew that even if she had been there, it was possible they had moved her again, unless—and this was the thing he had to hope for—they were so confident they had her well hidden that they didn’t hustle her away again.
Spurring the bald-faced horse, he lead the way down alleys and backstreets, avoiding panicked loose goats and scratching chickens sent to flight at the last minute. Their iron shoes clacked on the hard rocks and street surfaces until they were at last in the pines and headed west beyond the waking town. Slocum’s chest filled with anxiety. He neck-reined the good horse around obstacles of woodcutters and their burro strings on the narrow road heading back toward the village.
His resolve to find his friend’s hostage wife was steeled in his thinking and goals. Anyone or anything in his way he planned to mow down. It had been long enough. Enough time had been wasted—Nada had paid with her life. Slocum was worked up enough to finish this rescue and bring his enemies to some kind of justice fast.
By nightfall, the three had gone over the high pass above the tree line and started off down the western slope. Under the stars, he had slowed their speed to a careful crawl, and when they reached a spring in the timber, he shut them down. They strung a picket rope, left the animals saddled and fed them some grain in nose bags while their riders gnawed on some jerky and slept a few hours, wrapped in individual blankets that barely kept away the nighttime coolness at the high altitude.
Stiff and sore, Slocum woke as the distant dawn began to lighten the sky. He shook his two posse members from their sleep, and they rolled up their blankets like numb puppets and resumed the chase.
Strange that Salazar had moved Martina to the western slopes. Who would have suspected such a switch? He would have thought Salazar would have taken her to Mexico City. Maybe all this time he had underestimated Salazar and needed to reconsider his assessment and start thinking of him as more than a simple, spoiled rich man’s son. If he was the Cockroach, how had he convinced all these men to ride for him and be loyal while he lulled around in the background?
Descending the mountains in the lead, Slocum wondered more and more about the man. What didn’t Slocum know about him? Lots, if Martina had fallen in love with him. Nada had only been looking for information, and that had gotten her killed. She had been his bait. The worst part was, she’d been doing it for Slocum’s sake; at the dance, he’d asked her to learn what she could from Mendez. But there were no answers to all his questions—how did the man hold these bandits in such a strong fashion? Be damn interesting to know.
All day long they rode through the twisting canyons on little-used trails that coursed the ponderosa pines. In late afternoon, the way brought them to the Río Verde, a cool, clear trout stream that wandered off the mountains in places, creating some high falls in the upper reaches and rushing across long meadows in others. By the early evening, they were close enough to the ranch headquarters by Slocum’s reckoning. He drew up not only to rest the animals but to scout the set of buildings down the valley. He regretted that Cherrycow had not caught up with them by this time. Instead he sent Obregón to scout the ranch coming in from the west.
Belly down next to a stream with his hat off and his face submerged in the cold water, Slocum cooled the skin on his cheeks that the reflective sun had baked all day. The liquid restored some of the moisture the sun had wrenched out of his tight skin. Rising up from the ground, he shook his face to get the water clear, then he listened. Someone was coming off the mountain above them. The click of iron shoes on the faraway rocks was distinct.
“Company?” Angela asked, sitting on her butt, barefoot and checking her toenails.
He nodded, then went over and unsheathed his .44-40 from its scabbard. Then he squatted down beside her. “I sure hope that’s the Apache.”
“I understand. If it’s not, we don’t need to go to shooting, do we?”
“Not if quiet force can take him.”
“He’s waving. It must be Cherrycow.”
“Good. Just in time.” He went and put his rifle up.
After the men exchanged handshakes, Angela fed them some jerky. Obregón came back to camp with little information about who was down there at the ranch. He looked grateful to see his cohort. They all sat around in the cool afternoon waiting for the sun to set. Cherrycow said the man that Slocum had shot at Don Carlos’s casa might die. But it was no great loss to them.
Night fell, and they waited until all the lights were out before they slipped off the hill, headed for the ranch. He sent the Apache ahead because he was the quietest. They met Cherrycow behind the corral and squatted down so as not to be noticed.
“There are three men here. They must not expect any trouble. They are drunk, and I can’t tell if Señora McCarty is in the main casa.”
“You two take out the guards. Angela and I will check out the main house. If she’s here, we may need another horse for her to ride.”
Obregón nodded. “We can find one.”
“Good. Let’s go then,” Slocum said. With Angela behind him, he eased his way to the larger adobe structure that shone in the starlight. On the porch, he tried the front door, but it must have been barred inside. He slipped around the side and pried open a hinged window. Listening in the night, other than the crickets, he could hear nothing. He made a motion for Angela to stay outside. Once he was inside the empty room, his gritty soles on the tile floor made enough noise that he feared waking up the Mexican army. He moved down the hallway to a bedroom in the back of the house.
Starlight shone on a bed, and a woman slept on her side in the shaft of light coming in through the window. He recognized Martina—no one else appeared to be in the house.
He went to the bed. “Wake up, Martina. We must leave here.”
“Huh? Is that you, Mendez?” Her voice was slurred; she sounded drunk.
“No, I’m Slocum. Your husband sent me to take you home.”
“No!”
“Martina, your husband needs you.”
She rubbed her sleepy eyes with her palms; the low-cut, silky nightgown exposed her proud cleavage as she sat up.
“I can’t go with you. They will kill my son, Reginald.” She began to cry. “That is why I cannot leave here.” Her voice caught on a sob. “You don’t understand, he has my son.”
“No, he’s lied to you. Your son is at the hacienda with your husband. Salazar’s lied to you. Now get dressed.”
“No! No! I know they have him. They will kill him if I leave here.”
“They can’t kill him. They don’t have him.” He grasped her by the arm. “Now get dressed or I’ll take you out of here in that nightgown.”
“No! No! He will kill him.” She flailed her fists at him.
“I’ll get her dressed. Go get the horses,” Angela said, who had slipped inside while Slocum was arguing with Martina. “I think the others have taken care of the guards.”
When Slocum opened the front door and went outside, he could still hear Martina’s protests in the back bedroom. What possessed her so? Her son had been at the ranch the whole time. What did she mean—kill him? How did Salazar get such control over people? Whole armies of outlaws did his thievery. Like the reason for the attack on the McCarty Hacienda, there were so many questions unanswered.
“The guards chose to fight us,” Obregón said. “They are dead.”
With a grim set to his mouth
, Slocum nodded. “We may have to tie the señora up. She thinks that they have her son and will kill him if she leaves with us.”
Obregón shook his head. “Has she lost her mind?”
“I know she was a very levelheaded woman before, but now the devil possesses her. This man Salazar is a brain twister.”
“What shall we do?”
“Don’t let her run off. Keep a close eye on her until we safely get her home.”
“I will warn Cherrycow.”
“Do that.” Slocum bridled a gentle horse he found in the corral and then saddled him. He led the mount to the yard gate and hitched it there. Wondering how Angela was getting along, he dreaded the notion that he might have to rope and tie Martina.
He found Angela pushing Martina, “dressed” for the most part, out of the house. Her eyes red from crying, she still tried to balk as Angela moved her none too gently to where Slocum had hitched the horse.
“Promise me that you won’t run and I won’t tie you on this horse,” Slocum said quietly to Martina.
Her pleading face tightened. “You don’t understand. They have Reg, and you are signing his death warrant by taking me away from here.” She dropped to her knees in protest, crying.
No way. He hoisted her up roughly and then put her on the horse, tying her wrists to the saddle horn. Ignoring her loud protests, he put a lead on her mount and handed the rope to Angela. “You lead her.”
“Oh, thanks,” Angela said, mounting the horse Cherrycow brought her. “Where do we go now?”
“First to Don Carlos’s house, then on to the McCarty Hacienda.” He swung on board the bald-faced horse and waved for them to follow him. Looking at Martina’s wet face made his stomach roil as though snakes were inside. I am bringing her home—but not the way you might think, amigo.
14
After two days of hard riding, they slipped into Don Carlos’s courtyard under the cover of night.
“Ah, you have found her.” The patrón, looking recovered, grinned down at them from the second story balcony in the Chinese lantern light.
Slocum nodded and stepped over to untie the restraints at the saddle horn that he had kept on Martina’s wrists. Then he plucked Martina out of the saddle. No telling how much weight she had lost—she hadn’t been eating, and that was going to kill her.
“Take care of her,” he said to Angela.
Angela swept back a stubborn wave of hair from her face. “Is there a cell here to hold her?”
Donna, who had just come out of the house, looked shocked at Angela’s question. “Why?”
“She is under the spell of a vicious man and will return to him if she gets the chance. She can’t help herself.”
“Isn’t that the McCarty woman?”
Angela nodded. “But she isn’t in her own mind.”
“Oh, help me,” Martina begged and desperately grasped for Donna. “They will kill my son. They won’t listen.”
“I’m so sorry,” Donna said, then spoke to Angela. “Come with me.”
Slocum and Angela followed and, after more struggles and wailing, McCarty’s upset wife was soon locked in a secure bedroom from which she couldn’t escape. Angela collapsed against the hall outside the room. Slocum came by and squeezed her shoulders.
“Thanks, Donna,” he said and led his worn-out companion away to the kitchen for some food.
“Won’t she need to eat?” Donna asked, following them as they went down the hallway.
Angela shook her head. “I couldn’t get her to eat a thing.”
“I’ll try later,” Donna said. “Oh, you missed the federales. They were here again looking for you, Slocum.”
“Great, what did they want?” he asked.
“They never said. But Captain Peralta spoke with Don Carlos. Maybe he will tell you what they discussed.” Donna appeared to be in a huff.
Slocum smiled. “I’ll ask him.”
The crew was busy eating hot food when they entered the kitchen. A young woman handed both Slocum and Angela plates loaded with food. Someone poured them wine in crystal glasses and made a place for the two of them at the long preparation table. Don Carlos was talking to Slocum’s men, and Jesús joined them, acting grateful to see them.
“How is the wounded man?” Slocum asked.
“He will live,” Jesús said. Then he started quizzing Obregón about the rescue.
Obregón warned Jesús with a hard look on his face. “The señora is not the same. They have drugged her or twisted her brain.”
Upon hearing the news, Jesús looked as upset as the other two were by this turn of events. “Slocum,” he raised his voice. “Slocum, who can cure her?”
“We don’t know the source of the control over her. Angela knows much about such things. But after two days with her, she doesn’t understand what is making Martina so convinced they have her son and will kill him for letting us take her away. We know the boy is with poor Mitch at the hacienda, waiting for his mother’s return.”
“Why did Salazar have her in such an isolated place?” Don Carlos asked.
Slocum shrugged. “Maybe to trap us. But we beat him at his own game.”
“You would think any poison that he fed her would have worn off by now,” Don Carlos said.
“No,” Angela said. “He has a power. It is not medicine. This is embedded in her head.”
Food platters were passed around the table. Some took second helpings, and they went back to eating.
“Slocum, what will you do next?” Don Carlos asked.
“Take Martina home to be with her son and maybe she will believe the truth.”
“And then?”
“Then—I owe Salazar my full attention. He obviously murdered Nada and no doubt is a big part of this Cockroach deal.”
“You know his father is very influential in Mexico City.”
“I’ve heard that. Is that why the federales came here?” Slocum asked.
“I talked to Captain Peralta. The father thinks authorities in the Norte are picking on his heir.”
“What does Peralta think?”
“He is unsure. I told him this Cockroach business has been causing widespread crime over the region, and he agreed, but he has no idea about the source of it either.”
“Maybe we can convince him who it centers on.”
Don Carlos shook his head wearily. “He is dead set that Salazar is not involved.”
“Then he has to be taught some facts.”
“Be careful. He considers you a foreign troublemaker.”
“Good.” Slocum forced a laugh. “He will be a big help in solving this whole operation, I can tell already.”
They left before sunup, took the backstreets and hoped they could descend the eastern slopes undiscovered in a swift flight. The distraught Martina’s hands were again tied to her saddle horn and the woman looked like a rag doll in the saddle. Her situation made Slocum sick. Even Donna had not gotten her to eat anything substantial. Maybe she ate enough to keep herself alive, but that was all.
Cherrycow and Obregón made a scouting run ahead of them to look for any ambush planned to stop them. Slocum knew he would have to replace a few horses that were getting weak under the push. Maybe he could find some stout horses along the way. He still had enough money in his pocket from McCarty that he should be able to afford some new mounts. He could not believe that the outlaws had not searched him for his wealth when they shoved him into that prison. Oh well, that one thing had gone right anyway. So early during the second day on their way out of the Madres, Slocum asked Obregón to push ahead and look for the horses they needed.
At a small village, Obregón and two vaqueros waited for their arrival. The six horses they had brought for Slocum’s inspection looked sound, tied at the church hitch rail.
“Angela, look them over. You need a fresh horse,” Slocum said, swinging off his own horse.
She agreed with a nod, stepped down and handed her reins to Jesús, who rode in to assist her. He then quickl
y dismounted and undid her girths. She ran her hand over the neck of one of the horses and asked Obregón if he thought the deep red sorrel would do. The pistolero agreed with a nod and they untied him.
Slocum cradled his rifle in his arms and told Jesús that when he had Angela’s saddle on, he should replace his own mount and the dun pack animal that was favoring its right hoof. Obregón nodded that he’d heard and took another horse from the rack for the dun’s substitution.
“He’s a nice animal,” Angela said when Slocum rode by her to pay the two vaqueros for the animals.
“A good one, I’m sure.” He noticed the weariness in her eyes. “We ever get to the hacienda, we’ll take a rest.”
She winked. “I doubt it.”
He shook his head at her disbelief and dropped to the ground. Sliding the Winchester into the scabbard, he nodded at the two traders.
“They are good horses. Thank you. What is the price Obregón negotiated with you?”
“Thirty-five dollars a head,” the older man said. “And the ones that you are trading.”
“You know these were good horses and can recover.”
“Sí, señor, and our horses are fresh and sound.”
Slocum counted out the purchase price, and the man politely thanked him with the money in his palm.
“If you ever need more good horses, come see me, señor.” The man nodded to him.
“I’ll do that. Let’s ride,” he called out loudly enough for the others to hear him. His concerns increased that they were staying too long in one place and made him feel it was urgent that they move on. In the saddle, he left in a trot for the east. In three, maybe four days they would be at the hacienda—without any resistance, he hoped.
He felt better when, two days later, they reached the Strycker place. Hans frowned at the sight of Martina and shook his head at Slocum. “What have they done to her?”