Big Bend

by John Benteen

Concho was swinging down off his horse. “We’ll shelter up here in this arroyo ’til dark. Then we’ll go size up the lay of the land.”

  Ramsey dismounted behind the cover of a high cutbank and loosened his horse’s cinches. When he turned around, Concho was squatting, drawing a kind of map in the sand with a branch of ocotillo.

  “Look here,” Concho said. He traced a triangle that had to be the mountain. “The front of it points out towards the desert. The back of it here drops off into a canyon, down to the Rio. Now, out here on the flats, around the front, there’s about a dozen ’dobe huts, where the mine workers used to live. Most of ’em are spaced pretty far apart. Right in the middle of ’em, there’s the mine super’s house. It’s twicet as big as the others and made outa wood and concrete. My guess is that Sheep Kelly’ll have tooken it over for hisself, and Nora—if he ain’t already tired of her—will be in there with ’im.”

  Ramsey nodded.

  “Now,” Concho said, “they don’t hafta worry about the back of the mountain. Nobody can git at ’em from the Rio side. But out here in front, on the desert, Sheep’ll have a perimeter guard.” He drew a half circle that encompassed the flanks of the mountain and the dots he’d made to indicate the cluster of houses.

  “Where’s the mine itself?” Ramsey asked.

  Concho’s pointer moved up the triangle a fourth of the distance from the apex. “Right here. There’s some shafts and some old buildin’s. If anybody was to attack Sheep and his men, they could retreat back up here to the mine and hold off a whole army. If they got pushed, they could go back over the mountain to the canyon, git down somehow—there’s bound to be a trail—and cross the Rio.”

  “Looks like a tough place to crack,” Ramsey said.

  “Tough enough,” Concho said. He tapped the end of the stick where he had drawn the mine. “There’s a ridge runs up here, above the mine. They’ll have a guard on it, too. From there, a man can overlook the whole damn country.”

  He tossed the stick aside, and the two men sat down on opposite sides of the map. Ramsey stared at it for a while. Then he said, “We got to come up the back side of the mountain and take that guard on the ridge.”

  Concho nodded and smiled, as pleased as a teacher hearing a recitation by a star pupil. “Now you got it,” he said. “That’s where we git the lay of the land.” He took out a pack of Mexican cigarettes found on one of the bodies, and rammed one in his mouth. He snapped a match and looked at Ramsey across the flame. “There’s jest one thing to remember,” he said. “It’s gonna be you and me against twenty men, and the first one that lets the other down, he’s signin’ both our death warrants. Now, somebody got to be in charge of an operation like this. Let’s git this settled now. Who it gonna be, you or me?”

  Ramsey looked at him a moment. Then he said, “I reckon it’ll be you. This is more in your line.”

  Concho looked faintly surprised, and he was not smiling now. “I jest wanted to have it understood. I mean, you a white man and ... and I black. If—”

  Ramsey said quietly, “I’d just about forgot that until you reminded me.” Then he spat into the dust. “You’re the expert. Call the turn and I’ll follow orders.”

  ~*~

  They stayed hidden in the arroyo for a long time—too long, it seemed to Ramsey. He watched the setting sun paint the flanks of Mariscal Mountain bright red, saw it strike gleams from the Chisos, not far to the north. Then darkness settled, and in the distance, watching from the rim of the arroyo, they saw pinpoints of light around the foot of the mountain. Concho drew in a deep, satisfied breath. “They’re there,” he whispered.

  They ate cold beans and salmon again, and the sliver of moon arose over the escarpment and mountains to the southeast. Its glow, mingled with starlight, silvered the flats before them, transforming the harsh rawness of the desert to a blue fantasy, laced with shadows of darker blue. Still Concho did not move, and Ramsey’s pocket watch told him it was getting close to midnight.

  At last Concho arose. “We kin start now. Wanted to wait to hit ’em jest about two in the morning. A man’s at his lowest, you wake him outa sleep about then. Even if he’s on guard, he ain’t alert. Come on. We ride a ways, then we walk a ways.”

  They mounted up, and Concho led the way down the draw. Presently they climbed out to level ground. Ahead, the mountain was like some huge animal sleeping in the darkness. The pinpoints of light had vanished now, all but one or two.

  “What they got to worry about?” Concho said as they rode across a shadowed flat. “They figger I’m dead and prob’ly you, too. They know them people from North Wells have had all they want. Maybe the Army’ll come in—but no troop of cavalry’s gonna sneak up on anybody. And Rangers—? They all chasin’ that other cow-thief, Chico Cana, over around Presidio. Still, Sheep keeps good discipline, army discipline. He’d shoot a man he found asleep on guard.” He made a clucking sound in his throat. “In a way, you got to admire a man like Sheep, runs his outfit the way he does. I know Villa’s made him several offers to hire out with him, but Sheep thinks it’s safer and more money jest to lift cattle and sell to the armies.”

  He quit talking then, for they were swinging a wide circle that brought them to broken ground. An hour later, when they had come out of it, they were in the very shadow of the mountain itself. Now, only one light gleamed on the flat in front of the mountain’s toe. Concho reined in and swung down, pointing at it. His mouth close to Ramsey’s ear, he whispered: “I bet that Sheep hisself up this late. I don’t even wanta think why.” Then the rasp of hatred ebbed from his tone. “We tie the hawses here and go on foot. When we climb outa this draw, take a good look around and memorize the landmarks, so you can git here in a hurry if they after you.”

  They took the Springfields from their saddles and slung them over their shoulders. The horses they tethered to clumps of brush. Then Concho led the way up out of the draw in which they’d halted. As they gained the level ground, Concho paused. Ramsey saw that he had drawn a knife taken from one of the Mexicans, was testing its edge with his thumb.

  Keeping their way to whatever cover they found, they worked their way toward the mountain. Ahead of Ramsey, Concho was a wraith, a soundless shadow floating across the desert, from this boulder to that yucca, scouting, then beckoning Ramsey on.

  Sam Ramsey himself moved almost without sound. He had hunted enough to know how to travel quietly, testing each step before putting weight on his foot, careful not to hurry if hurrying would cause him to make any noise.

  Presently they reached the foot of the mountain. It rose, a jumbled pile of rock and cactus, abruptly from the desert floor. Its flank was a steep patchwork of shadows and starlight. Concho edged through the rolling ground along its foot a distance, headed toward the base of the triangle, toward the Rio. Then, abruptly, he stopped short and in a smooth, melting motion, dropped flat, disappearing in shadow. Five yards behind him, Ramsey immediately and instinctively followed suit before he saw the cause of alarm.

  Down like this, he could see it better, anyhow. From this angle, the head and shoulders of the man standing beside a shoulder-high outthrust of ground from the mountain was silhouetted against the sky. The guard had his back against the side of the hill; a cigarette glowed in his mouth; a rifle was cradled in his arm. He was looking away from them, toward the east.

  Silently, Ramsey drew his pistol, but Concho was already wriggling forward on his belly, propelling himself with elbows and knees. Like an enormous snake, he began to cover the twenty yards that separated them from the guard, and his progress was fantastically without sound.

  Now Concho had vanished in the darkness. The guard straightened up, and the cigarette made a winking arc as he tossed it through the air. Ramsey saw the little shower of sparks it made when it hit the ground. The guard cleared his throat and shifted the rifle to his other arm. Minutes passed, and Ramsey lay motionless, but with his Colt ready. Hardly daring to breathe, he wondered what had become of the Negro.

  Sud
denly there was sound, a thump and crashing of brush. It came from a dozen yards in front of the guard, towards the east. Instantly, the man was alert. He straightened up, took three long steps forward, raising his rifle. “Who’s there?” he snapped in a harsh voice. “Quien es?”

  Then, like a ghost materializing, a black shape reared up behind him. Ramsey caught the silhouette of a raised knife; then the blackness blotted the guard from his vision. There was a curious muffled sound, a thick gurgle, and the blackness that was Concho lowered the body, turned, and beckoned Ramsey to come forward to where the man lay in a welter of blood from a cut throat. The body was still moving slightly when Ramsey stepped across it.

  Concho’s teeth flashed white in darkness. “That’s one down. Now, we go up the mountain.”

  Its dark wall loomed above them, rearing almost a quarter-mile high. Concho led Ramsey through a nest of boulders and struck a trail of sorts—a trail made for goats, Ramsey thought, as he panted after the Negro. Winding, twisting, it led almost straight up, and Ramsey groped blindly after Concho’s silent presence. The slung rifle banged against his back; sometimes it would clack against a rock, or a piece of shale, dislodged by hand or foot would go rattling down. Then they would freeze, on whatever precarious perch they found themselves, holding breaths until they were sure the way was clear.

  All at once, the trail gave out entirely. Ahead of them was a black vee, a split in a wall of rock. Concho unslung his rifle, pressed it to his chest, and then moved sideways into that cleft. It was so narrow that Ramsey, following him, had to suck in his belly. But it led upward, and their feet made no sound on its floor of drifted sand. It was also, Ramsey thought sourly, a perfect trap if they were discovered. From above, they could be slain like fish in a barrel.

  They were in it for fifteen minutes. Then a vee of sky showed at one end, only to be blotted by Concho’s body. In a moment, they emerged from the cleft onto a narrow bench. Now, above them, the mountain rounded off. Concho let Ramsey breathe a moment, and, as if feeling the effects of the wound, himself seemed grateful for the rest.

  Then they climbed again. This time, Concho led the way with drawn revolver, hunkered down behind the skyline. Ramsey followed, bent low in the same way. Ahead of them, he could see the long, razor-edged crest of this ridge of the mountain, black against the star-powdered sky.

  They reached it, on hands and knees now, and then Concho sank flat on his belly. Ramsey dropped beside him.

  In front of them, the ridge dipped down to a shallow, sandy hollow. Then the mountain rose again, to another crest perhaps twenty feet higher than the one on which they lay.

  Ramsey and Concho scanned it. Then Ramsey tensed, tapped Concho on the arm. The Negro followed Ramsey’s pointing hand and nodded. Boulders, silhouetted, strewed the other ridge crest, and among a clump of them directly at their front, the head and shoulders of a man wearing a flat-brimmed, peak-crowned army hat was almost lost in the jumble of shapes.

  Silently, Concho holstered his Colt and once more drew his knife. He thrust its blade significantly under Ramsey’s nose. Ramsey understood and shoved his own revolver back into leather. Then he pulled his sheath knife.

  Soundless as fog, Concho moved over the ridge crest. He seemed to swim across the ground, like a fish in water. Ramsey, less adept, followed slowly and awkwardly, taking no chances on giving the alarm. Within a dozen feet, his palms were full of cactus thorns; some had even pierced the leather of his chaps, and Concho had left him far behind.

  Now Concho was working his way up the back slope of the ridge ahead. The man sat among the boulders unawares, the end of his cigarette an occasional bright wink as he smoked. Ramsey reached the sandy trough between ridges and halted there to get his breath. But Concho was almost to the top of the other ridge.

  Then the Negro reared to his feet, a huge shape against the sky. In a strange, great, shambling leap, he covered the rest of the distance. Ramsey saw it all in silhouette, the man alarmed, rising, turning, the big hand reaching out to cup his face, the rise and fall of the knife ...

  Then, without warning, almost at Concho’s back, another figure reared itself. “What the hell?” it blurted, and Ramsey saw a pistol coming up, even as Concho struck again with the knife, unaware of this menace behind him.

  Sam Ramsey sprang to his feet. He never knew how he made it up that slope in such close-shaved seconds. But the man with the gun heard him coming, and that was what saved Concho’s life. The guard froze, confused, jerked his head around, and then, in a flying leap, Ramsey was on him.

  There was the white blur of the face beneath the straw skimmer, the dark hole of a mouth opening to yell. Ramsey literally thrust his hand straight into that, even as he struck with the knife, low and awkwardly, driving the blade deep, ripping upward.

  There was no scream. Teeth closed on his hand and he forced the head backward with a savage jerk. Then the knife grated horribly on a rib, deflected, Ramsey pulled it out and struck again, this time for the heart. The man fell backwards, gun spilling from his hand, and Ramsey was on top of him, hand still plugging the gagging mouth, using the knife like a butcher, wherever he could find a target, until the body beneath him was limp and still. Then Ramsey rolled away, bile hot in his mouth, his left hand bleeding, his shirtfront drenched with blood, and looked up to see Concho crouching over him.

  “Man,” Concho whispered, “you sho’ did go for his chit’lins. I’m a goddam fool, never thought there’d be two ... ”

  Ramsey did not answer. If he unclenched his teeth, he was certain to vomit. He got to his knees, hating the red wetness of the cloth that brushed his belly. Then he swallowed hard, and, miraculously, he was all right except for a shaking in the legs.

  “If I’d seen this thing first,” Concho muttered, “I’da known. Generally, it better with two men to work one.” He plucked at Ramsey’s sleeve. “Come, look what them jokers had over here.” There was a strange exultancy in his voice.

  Ramsey crawled toward the nest of boulders, avoiding the body of the man whose throat Concho had cut. The Negro crouched over a weapon of some sort that was mounted on a low bipod, its barrel pointing down the mountain. “What is it?” Ramsey asked.

  Concho almost giggled with happiness as he dropped down behind it. “Man, don’t you know what this is? This a Lewis gun. Ole Sheep Kelly playin’ in the big time now—he done gone and got himself one of the best machine guns they make!”

  Chapter Ten

  The gun had been set up to command the forward slope of the mountain and the tableland beneath it. Ramsey, squatting beside Concho in the boulders looked over the edge of the gun position. Under its muzzle, the ridge sloped sharply, until it reached a small bench on which were two stone buildings almost like towers and a cluster of smaller sheds.

  That was the old mercury mine. Below it, the mountain continued downward, split by a deep draw half-clogged with cinnabar tailings. On either side of the draw, the mountain was divided into jutting, sloping wings, and a scratch of a road ran down the rocky top of each wing to the level land a half mile below. Out on the flat, there was the widely scattered handful of huts and shacks, all dark except for a single light that burned in a larger structure in the middle.

  Concho swung the gun as happily as a child with a toy, traversing, elevating, depressing, two extra ammunition drums in his lap. Ramsey drew back and asked, “You know how to work this thing?”

  “Man, what you think I did with Pancho Villa? I was his instructor. Hell, I can play a tune on this booger. Kelly musta traded Pancho outa this for some hawses or cows.”

  “Then that settles it,” Ramsey said.

  “Settles what?”

  Ramsey picked up the straw skimmer the man he had killed had worn. Lyman had worn a straw hat—but Ramsey did not look at the corpse’s face. “That it’s me who goes down yonder after Nora,” he said and settled the hat on his head.

  “Now, wait a minute—” Concho whispered.

  “Listen, dammit. You’re t
he one knows how to work this machine gun. I’ll need you up here to cover me. Besides, I can pass for one of Kelly’s men in the dark, but they’d recognize you in a minute. Was that hombre wearin’ chaps?”

  Concho groped. “No.”

  “Then I’ll take mine off.” Ramsey unbuckled them.

  “Listen,” Concho said, “how you aim to work it?”

  “I don’t see but one way.” Ramsey laid the chaps aside. “That big house used to belong to the superintendent, didn’t it? Well, won’t Kelly be in it now?”

  “I guess so,” Concho said.

  “Then that’s where Nora’ll be. I’ve got to go down there, size up the situation when I git there, and take Nora out the best way I can.”

  Concho was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Suppose Kelly ain’t alone? And even if he is, there ain’t nobody any worse in a fight than him. ’Fore he deserted the Army, he was in Cuba and the Philippines both. He got medals, man. Goin’ up against him ain’t no job for a amateur.”

  “I can handle it,” Ramsey said.

  Even in the dark he was aware of Concho’s scrutiny. The big Negro’s eyes seemed to bore into him like augers. Then Concho said quietly, “Yeah, I reckon you can.”

  He slapped the machine gun lightly. “Okay. You go down, and I’ll cover you from up here. Git Nora and head straight for the hawses. If it’s a clean gitaway, I’ll meet you there. But if there’s shootin’, don’t worry about me. You reach them critters, you mount up and hightail it. Me and the Lewis gun will discourage any son that takes a notion to follow you.”

  “Hell, we can’t do that. You’d be afoot.”

  “Goddammit,” Concho said, “I was afoot when I met up with you. Now you do what I say.” Ramsey could see his eyes in the dark. “We agreed who’s givin’ the orders here, remember?”

  Ramsey hesitated, then nodded. “All right. But try to make it to the horses if you can.” He stepped over the edge, beside the gun, and began to work his way downward.