by John Benteen
Boland had chosen for himself a big black horse rigged with a saddle and bridle decorated with silver conchos. A blanket roll was tied behind the cantle of the fancy saddle. Montoya uttered an angry protest.
“That is my mount, gringo!”
Boland swore under his breath but turned to one of the other animals, Sundance let the Comanchero mount the black, then, keeping man and horse between himself and the vaqueros, he tied his hands to the saddle horn with the piggin’ string. The saddle was Mexican, and its horn was therefore saucer-shaped. Leaving the loop of his lariat about Montoya’s neck, the half-breed swung onto his Appaloosa. Markham helped Virginia to the saddle of one of the remaining horses, then mounted the other.
“You, Montoya,” Sundance said. “Tell your men they can follow along to bring you home but they’re not to get close. If they come within rifle range, I’ll throw lead at them.”
The Comanchero shouted to the vaqueros in excited Spanish. But instead of telling them what Sundance had ordered, he bellowed, “Get help, amigos! Ride out and gather a hundred men! Block the road to Fort Sumner! We’ll still give this half-breed to the Noconas!”
The vaqueros needed no further urging. They ran to get mounts.
Sundance said, “Montoya, you sure are a gambling man. But anybody who gambles with his own life for no good reason is a damn fool.” Then, to Boland, he said, “Move out. Head north—and hit a lope.”
Boland kneed his horse into motion. Markham set out after him, and Virginia took her place behind her ex-fiancé. Montoya followed without protest, seemingly willing enough to play the role of prisoner now that he would have those hundred men gathered to block the road. Sundance felt safe enough to boot his rifle. He tied the end of his lariat to the horn of his saddle, deciding that he would remove the loop from about Montoya’s neck later on. With his hands tied to his saddle, the Comanchero wasn’t likely to try to make a run for it.
Boland was holding the pace to a walk, and Sundance called to him, “Move it, Matt! We haven’t all the time in the world!”
Boland yelled back, “The hell with you, half-breed!”
He lifted his horse to a run and headed away from the group.
Sundance grabbed out his rifle but did not line it on the fleeing hard case. The next moment Boland was out of range and lost in the darkness. Sundance regretted not having dropped him. He knew that the ramrod would return to Montoya’s house and arm himself, then come after them to try to work off that loco grudge of his. Boland would be more of a danger to him than those hundred New Mexicans, for he, unlike them, wouldn’t be held off by a threat to Montoya’s life. Boland didn’t give a damn whether the Comanchero lived or died.
Having reined in her mount, Virginia said, “Jim, why did he run off?” Her voice was edged with worry.
“Because he wants to make a try at doing me in.”
“But why would he want to kill you?”
“Because it galls him that I’m a half-breed—different from himself. He’s that bigoted a bastard. You take the lead, Virginia, and hit a lope. Markham, you keep up with her, you hear?”
Virginia immediately lifted her horse to the faster pace, and Markham, despite his being no horseman at all, managed to follow close behind her. Montoya balked, however. He refused to ride faster than a walk until Sundance jerked his lariat taut and tightened the loop until it choked him.
Riding at this pace through the darkness, they covered distance swiftly. But Sundance knew they would soon have to slow to a walk, to save the horses. They had a long, long way to travel. Boland would overtake them even if it meant running his horse into the ground, for he was a man driven by hatred. And sooner or later there would be the vaqueros and the hundred hombres they were gathering to be dealt with, in one way or another. Sundance didn’t know how distant Fort Sumner was, only that it stood on the Pecos River.
He had the sour thought that he was only slightly better off than he’d been when chained up there in Montoya’s barn.
Chapter Nineteen
A crude road led northwest, and though hardly more than a trace it made the going easier. No longer having to pick their way over rugged terrain, the four made better time. They sky was heavily overcast, however, and this was to their disadvantage. At least it bothered Jim Sundance, for without moonlight he could not see as far ahead or behind as he would have liked. He had those hundred riders in mind, fearing he might run into them unexpectedly. He was equally uneasy about Matt Boland, who could overtake his group at any time. Still, they were making plenty of tracks in a hurry ... Virginia, Markham, Montoya, and himself.
At dawn they came to a river ford, and Sundance, after saying they would stop here to rest the horses, asked the hostage what stream this was.
Little had been said during the long hours of hard riding, and Montoya had spoken not a single word. Now, giving the half-breed one of his hating looks, he said, “The Pecos. But that doesn’t mean you are close to Fort Sumner, hombre—or that you will ever get there.”
Here the Pecos River country was the exact opposite of what it was to the south toward Horsehead Crossing. There it was a harsh, desolate land where little plant and animal life existed and even the water was bitter with alkali. Here it was lushly green with grass, bushes and trees. A good place to rest, Sundance thought. But they dared pause only briefly, no more than a couple of hours.
He untied Montoya’s hands and told him to dismount. He had removed the loop of his lariat from the Comanchero’s neck miles back. He hadn’t it in him to treat a prisoner as roughly as Montoya did.
“Don’t try to run for it,” he said. “I won’t be napping.” He pulled his rifle from the boot on Eagle’s saddle. “Phil, get out the grub and pass it around. I’ll be yonder, keeping watch.”
He climbed a little hump of ground from which he could watch not only Montoya but also the road. The Comanchero refused the food Markham offered him. He removed the blanket roll from behind his saddle, spread it on the ground, and lay upon it. In a little while Virginia came up the slope to Sundance and handed him two tortillas wrapped about thick slices of cold roast beef. Having brought two such sandwiches for herself as well, she seated herself on the ground to eat them.
“You’re terribly worried, aren’t you, Jim?”
He hunkered down beside her. “I’d be mighty happy if we would see that army post from the next rise we reach.”
“How far do you think it is from here?”
“I’m not sure. I never rode this country before. My guess is that it’s at least forty miles.”
She looked at him with dismay. “So far? We can’t possibly arrive there today, can we?”
“Nope. It’ll take us until long after nightfall.”
“But for me you could easily get away, couldn’t you?” When he didn’t reply, she answered for him. “You could, of course. You could ride off on that big horse of yours and neither Montoya’s men or Matt Boland would ever see you again.”
“I’m going to see you safely to Fort Sumner.”
“I’m a good rider, as you know. I could go on alone from here.”
“You might run into Montoya’s vaqueros and the men they went after to help them trap me.”
“I could outrun them.”
“Not if they’ve come another way and are ahead of us. Besides, you’ve got Phil to think of—and he’s a mighty poor rider.”
Virginia sighed audibly. “He’s such a poor excuse of a man.”
“He’s just out of his element, sweetheart.”
They fell silent. Below them, Montoya seemed to be asleep on his blankets and Markham, having finished eating, sat with his back to a boulder and his head bowed as though he too had dozed off. The horses cropped grass. The road was still empty for as far as Sundance could see along it. No riders appeared elsewhere, either. He saw nothing moving except a small bunch of cattle far to the west.
Finally he said, “When trouble comes, I want you to run for it. If it’s the Montoya crowd, that is. I�
��ll stand them off until you have a good start and then I’ll hightail it in a different direction. Phil will have to do his best to keep up with you. Just stay on this road until you come to the army post.” He paused, then added, “When we go on from here, you ride Montoya’s black. It’s a fine animal and should be able to outrun these little mustangs the vaqueros ride. Will you do this, Virginia?”
She nodded. “Gladly. To give you a chance to get away. But you won’t harm Montoya, will you? You’ll just let him go, won’t you?”
“I’m not a conscienceless killer, Virginia.”
“I know you’re not,” she said. “From your having offered Broken Nose a chance to give up.”
They fell silent again and did not speak again until, two hours later, he said it was time for them to move on. They descended from the hump, and Sundance, taking his buckskin shirt and old Stetson from his saddlebags, donned them. He told Virginia to mount Montoya’s horse, then called to the Comanchero and Phil Markham.
“Time to hit the trail, you two.”
Markham immediately rose and went to his horse, but Montoya had to roll his blankets—and he took his own good time about it. When the latter saw Virginia on his black, he cursed in Spanish.
“I ride my own horse or I go no farther!”
Sundance drew his revolver and thumbed back its hammer. “If you stay here, hombre, it will be as a dead man. The choice is yours.” He aimed the gun at the Comanchero.
Montoya was rebellious for a moment longer, then the defiant look left his haughty face. He shrugged and spoke with an attempt at bravado.
“It doesn’t matter. By now my vaqueros are on their way with enough other hombres to shoot you to pieces.” He went to the horse that Virginia had ridden previously, tying his blanket roll behind the saddle and then mounting. “When I look at you, I see a dead man!”
“You talk too much, Comanchero. Shut up and ride out.”
They forded the river, Phil Markham leading off. Sundance had not tied Montoya’s hands to the horn of his saddle. He didn’t think it necessary. Riding that vaquero bronc, the Comanchero wouldn’t be able to outrun Eagle if he made a break. They rode at a lope for a few miles, then slowed to a brisk walk. Toward noon they overtook a family of New Mexicans traveling by ox-cart. The man walked beside his yoke of oxen, goading the cumbersome beasts with a stick when necessary. His wife and a swarm of small children rode in the carreta with its screeching solid wheels. They were seated atop some sacks of grain that the peon doubtlessly hoped to sell at Fort Sumner. Sundance asked him how far it was to the army post.
“Many long miles, senor. We will not arrive there until this hour tomorrow. But of course we travel slowly and will also have to make camp when night comes.”
From that Sundance knew that his own estimation of the distance was accurate.
At mid-afternoon they saw, in the far distance, some vaqueros trail-driving a herd of cattle but nothing of Montoya’s hundred hombres nor of Matt Boland. Sundance entertained no false hopes, however. He and the others had many miles to travel, and he knew—felt—that he would still have both the hombres and the hard cased ramrod to deal with.
Later in the afternoon they encountered more travelers on the road. One was a peon with a string of mules loaded with firewood. The others were four horsemen heading south. These riders, all gringos, called out friendly greetings—and stared admiringly at Virginia.
She smiled in return, and asked, “How far to Fort Sumner, gentlemen?”
“Ten, twelve miles, ma’am,” one replied.
Two hours later, with the sun partially down behind the mountains, Sundance decided to make another halt to rest the horses. They turned off the road and stopped by the river. They had just dismounted when a rifle cracked in a brush thicket on the opposite bank. The slug shrieked past Sundance, so close that he flinched. He grabbed his rifle off Eagle’s saddle and dropped to the ground, at the same time shouting at Virginia.
“Mount up and ride! Head out, girl!”
Instead of obeying, she cried, “It’s Matt Boland, Jim! I can see him!”
Sundance saw that it was the Snake-in-the-Hole foreman, but as he rose to fire into the thicket Boland cut loose at him again. Three fast shots, with the slugs coming so close that the half-breed was forced to hug the ground. Keeping down, he began shooting as rapidly as he could work his Winchester’s lever and trigger—without aiming. After getting off four such wild shots, he began rolling toward the river bank. Boland fired at him twice more. One of the slugs tore through the sleeve of Sundance’s shirt and the other struck the ground within inches of his head. When he reached the edge of the bank, he flung himself off it. He dropped two feet, into shallow water—and was no longer so easy a target.
He reared up, onto one foot and one knee, with his rifle at his shoulder. He was none too soon, for Boland came charging from the thicket like an infuriated bull. The ramrod evidently believed he had scored a hit and now intended to fire a finishing shot. He had dropped his rifle and drawn his six-shooter. Seeing Sundance ready for him, he pulled up short and began firing rapidly. Sundance had him in his sights and squeezed off a shot. The slug hit Boland dead-center of the chest, knocking him over backward. That same instant Virginia cried out in frantic warning.
“Jim, watch out—Montoya!”
He swung around and received the jolt of his life, for Montoya held a long-barreled Colt’s revolver in his hand and was bringing it to bear on him. He told himself that the Comanchero couldn’t possibly have a gun, but he had to believe his own eyes. Now his attention was caught by the sudden appearance of riders beyond Montoya—far beyond him, on a long, low rise of ground. They were lining up there in a row abreast—by the dozen, by the score. The Comanchero’s vaqueros had arrived with the hundred hombres. Or so close to a hundred that the actual number did not matter. Meanwhile Montoya himself was preparing to do Jim Sundance in!
Chapter Twenty
His mind reeling, Sundance was slow to react to his immediate danger. He was saved only by Montoya’s firing too quickly, without taking proper aim. With the slug missing him by only a narrow margin, he snapped out of his state of shock and jerked his rifle to his shoulder. He too missed his shot as the Comanchero took cover behind the boulder by which Markham had rested.
Jacking another round into the Winchester’s firing chamber, he yelled, “Clear out, Virginia! The vaqueros are out there—!”
He fired again at Montoya, and once more missed. He ducked down behind the bank to shove fresh cartridges into the rifle, then came erect again upon hearing a shout from the Comanchero.
“I’ll shoot the puta if she takes my horse, half-breed!”
Enraged by Montoya’s having tagged Virginia with that insulting term a second time, Sundance erupted from behind the bank and charged at the boulder. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the girl had been about to mount the black horse but was now moving away from it. He was fired at again, and he fired back. Both shots missed, and now Montoya fled into a clump of trees. Sundance hurdled the rock and followed him, not seeing him but squeezing off a couple of shots anyway to keep him rattled.
He shouted to Virginia, “Ride out! He can’t get at you now!”
As he searched among the trees and bushes for his quarry, he heard first one and then a second horse being ridden away at a hard run. Virginia was heading out, with Markham following her. With them gone, he had only to save himself. But if he mounted Eagle to ride out, Montoya could and would back-shoot him. Meanwhile, that army of vaqueros was coming closer. He had to nail the Comanchero in a hurry. Time was running out on him.
“You, Montoya. Call it quits, hombre! Don’t force me to kill you!”
Montoya’s response was another shot from his revolver. Dropping to a crouch behind the trunk of a fallen dead tree, Sundance wondered how the hell the Comanchero had come by that gun. There had been only one way, he realized. The vaqueros had hidden it in the blanket roll they’d tied to the cantle of their patron’
s saddle, and he, the wily bastard, had expected to find it there. He’d slipped it into the waistband of his calzoneras, under his shirt, the first time he unrolled the blankets.
And it could damn well be my undoing!
With that thought, Sundance heard the swelling sound of hundreds of pounding hooves as the vaqueros came charging toward the river at a gallop. He still couldn’t see Montoya to target him, and he knew he dared no longer wait. He had to run the risk of being back-shot. He reared up from behind the tree trunk and drove three fast shots into the timber and brush beyond, hoping they would keep Montoya rattled for a moment. He turned and sprinted from the grove into the clearing. The vaqueros were approaching across a broad grass flat, sweeping toward him like a tidal wave. An awesome sight in the fading twilight. He ran to Eagle and caught the horse’s reins, then heard a shouted curse from Montoya. Like a man gone berserk and unable to realize that he needn’t gamble with his life in this manner, the Comanchero rushed from the trees—shooting as he came.
Sundance yelled, “Give it up, you loco bastard!”
Montoya came to a sudden stop, but only to take careful aim. The half-breed decided he had no choice but to kill or be killed. He flung himself to the ground, throwing off the Comanchero’s aim as his gun roared at almost the same instant. He then drove a slug into Don Esteban Montoya.
Sundance leapt to his feet as the Comanchero collapsed. He flung himself onto the Appaloosa and lifted it to a run with a wild Cheyenne yell and a kick of his moccasined feet. Eagle plunged into the river as the nearest vaqueros began a heavy but wild shooting. The river forded, Sundance headed east with the big spotted horse running again. They came after him in hot pursuit, that horde of sombreroed, shooting riders, spoiling to avenge the fallen Comanchero.