by Edson, J. T.
The ambush came as a complete surprise!
Passing along a stretch of the trail with gentle and bush covered slopes on each side, the group were caught by a withering blast of rifle and shotgun fire delivered from fairly close quarters on the left and right!
Caught by a charge of buckshot, fired from sufficiently near to ensure all nine .32 caliber balls impaled his body, Cordoba was slammed sideways. By doing so, he inadvertently saved his daughter from a worse fate than the one which overtook her. Filled with the rage he had developed towards the girl and her father, Javier Fuentes had planned to satiate his lust upon her before she was finished off. However, the impact she received caused her to move into the path of an approaching .44.40 caliber bullet. Ripping through the side of her head, it killed her instantly. The reins slipped from her no longer responsive grasp and, driven into panic by the commotion, the spirited horse drawing the buggy lunged forward in a wild gallop which threw her from the seat.
Nor, with the exception of their segundo, did any of the cowhands fare better. Lead from six weapons on one side and five at the other was slashing indiscriminately into man and beast. Despite the places of concealment selected amongst the bushes, the red flare of muzzle blasts would have served to locate the positions of their assailants, but the information was of no use. Impeded by their slickers, they could not have brought out their holstered revolvers even if they had had more stable seats than the saddles of their frightened and pitching horses. Not everyone was killed outright, but all were struck by bullets and thrown from their mounts before any could arm himself and fight back.
Sharing the dislike of his companions for suffering bodily discomfort when it could be avoided, Grey had taken a similar precaution to avoid getting wet. What was more, as a result of the much improved state of affairs which had arisen from the successful outcome of the meeting, even he was not as alert as usual. Nevertheless, there was one difference. Unlike the cowhands, he did not have his rifle in a saddleboot. The omission had aroused no comment. When riding, unless it reposed across the crook of his left arm, he invariably carried his Winchester Model of 1873 repeater suspended—by a rawhide loop attached to a ‘carbine ring’ which he had had fitted on purchasing it xxxv —from his saddle-horn. He had explained the habit to anybody who pointed out the disadvantages of such a means of transportation by asserting, ‘I’d sooner have to dry and clean her after every shower than not have her real handy should she be needed sudden-like.’
Taken just as unawares as the rest of his companions, Grey nevertheless responded with a speed which would have gladdened the hearts of his Chiricahua Apache warrior forefathers. Leaving the back of his plunging horse by his own volition, he contrived to snatch the rawhide loop of the rifle from the saddlehorn and take it with him. What was more, he alighted on his feet and, although he staggered a couple of paces, retained his equilibrium. Snapping the metal butt plate to his right shoulder, he sighted along the barrel to where the muzzle blast for a spread of buckshot which took the life of a cowhand indicated the position of the man responsible. His Winchester cracked the instant he was sure of his aim and, regardless of the speed with which the discharge was made, he achieved success. A cry filled with anguish rose from the bushes, followed by the sound of something heavy crashing to the ground and the thrashing of limbs working with a spasmodic lack of control.
Despite the fury he felt over what was happening to the rest of his party, especially the Cordobas, Halcón Gris did not allow it to blind him to his own dire peril. Throwing himself prone on the ground, he avoided two shots directed his way. By the time he alighted, he had operated the Winchester’s lever action and was ready to continuing fighting. The second bullet he sent met with a similar response to its predecessor, but the third failed to produce the same effect. Nor was he granted an opportunity to try again. Through pure expediency, he was firing at the side which harbored the most assailants. Although two of them had suffered as a result of his deadly skill, alerted to the peril he was posing, the others turned their weapons his way. All four bellowed almost simultaneously and only one missed. Plowing into his body, the loads from a shotgun and two rifles inflicted mortal wounds. Desperately trying to respond in kind, he was unable to do so and, the Winchester sliding from his hands, he subsided limply with his life blood spreading upon the surface of the trail.
Stimulated by a dose of the cocaine he had received from Doctor Otto Grantz, Javier Fuentes was wild with elation. Shrieking what he believed was encouragement to his men, who he had reinforced with five of the gun fighters from Flamingo on the pretense that his older brother had given orders for the ambush, he was firing his elegantly chased and engraved Winchester Model of 1873 carbine with all the speed he could manage. That his bullets were flying harmlessly over the heads of his victims and, in fact, posing a greater threat to his assistants, never occurred to him. Nor did he notice that Asa Coltrane and the villainous looking Mexican who had accompanied him on his most recent visit to the Rancho Mariposa had fallen victim to the rifle in the hands of Halcón Gris. His only thought was that, at last, he was being given an opportunity to avenge what he considered to have been humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the Cordoba family.
Having their hearing impaired by the detonation of so much black powder, none of the other attackers were any better able to hear sounds which should have warned them of the possibility that danger could be approaching. Not until lead started to fly and strike some of them did they realize several riders were dashing along the trail. Those who had already emptied shotguns were in the process of loading, or drawing revolvers, to continue the attack upon their victims. Others still had bullets in the magazines of rifles. However, all were caught unprepared by the arrival of this unanticipated menace. Of the three who were hit, two went down mortally wounded. Being the kind who preferred murder from concealment to open combat, the remainder considered discretion the better part of velour and turned without even waiting to discover who was attacking them.
Feeling a burning sensation as a bullet grazed his shoulder and elicited a squeal of pain, Fuentes was brought to an appreciation of the situation. Fortunately for him, it happened in time for him to become aware the affair was going badly wrong and to bring about the realization that he was being deserted by the survivors of the attack. He neither knew, nor cared, who had intervened to such deadly effect. All he was conscious of at that moment was that his life was in peril. Throwing aside the carbine, regardless of it bearing an inscription which could be considered as offering evidence of his participation in the ambush, he turned and fled to where the party on his side of the trail had left their horses.
Such was the state of terror that had replaced his earlier elation, the young Mexican did not attempt to locate his black thoroughbred and was oblivious of the fact that it too could serve to establish his presence at the incident. Instead of looking for the animal, catching hold of the nearest reins, he snatched them free from the branch around which they were looped. Neither knowing nor caring what had happened to the men he had persuaded to help him, but with fear giving speed to his shaking limbs, he hauled himself into a saddle he failed to recognize as being unlike the Mexican style rig he always used. Moaning in apprehension, he used his spurs with even greater violence than usual and sent the animal forward in a bound which almost dislodged him. However, he retained his seat and turned his attention to making good his escape with all the haste he could produce from his mount.
‘Let them go, but a couple of you catch the buggy!’ the leading newcomer shouted, after having reined his mount to a halt and listened to the sounds of departure made by the fleeing attackers. Despite an undertone of strain and anguish, his British upper class accent would have identified him as the owner of the Union Jack ranch to anybody familiar with the population of Bonham County. ‘We’ve all we can manage to do here!’
Following a procedure as unvarying as that of the Cordobas, Monocle Johnny Besgrove and the men who had arrived with him had
been attending a Protestant church service in Flamingo. Knowing their routine for Sundays, it had been his intention to accompany his friends along the trail to the point where they would be compelled to go their separate ways to their respective homes. Unfortunately, Mrs. Freddie Fog and her party were with him. There were many people who had been unable to make her acquaintance at the dance the previous evening and, being aware of her prominence and social standing in the State, were eager to rectify the situation. Wanting to avoid hurting anybody’s feelings, knowing it was advisable to maintain the best possible relationships in the area during the next few weeks, she had allowed Besgrove to make introductions and chatted with those who were presented to her. By doing so, she had inadvertently delayed their departure until sometime after the contingent from the Rancho Mariposa had set out.
Because of the threat of inclement weather, the Englishman had decided against sending a rider to ask his friends to wait until his party caught up. However, on hearing the shooting, he had not hesitated in the way he responded. Nor had he been concerned over leaving his cousin behind. He knew she was far from being defenseless or unprotected. She had what she referred to as an ‘elephant gun’ loaded and readily available inside the coach in which she had travelled from Rio Hondo County. As she was fully competent in the use of both, xxxvi it would more than supplement the Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker revolver reposing in her reticule. Furthermore, although her two nephews had accompanied Besgrove, the driver of the vehicle and another member of the OD Connected ranch’s crew who stayed behind were well armed and equally capable of offering any added protection she might need.
As was the case with the party from the Rancho Mariposa, Besgrove and his companions had put on slickers. Nor had they taken the time to remove the restrictive garments. However, there was one very important difference. They too were taken unawares by the shooting, but were not caught in the ambush. Prior to setting off to investigate, realizing they would be going into a dangerous situation, they had drawn either rifles from saddleboots or revolvers out of their holsters before sending their horses forward at a fast run.
Arriving undetected until they opened fire, while inflicting some casualties upon the men in the bushes, the Englishman’s party had avoided suffering any themselves. The same did not apply to the group they had come to assist. Not one was standing and their horses were galloping off in every direction. It was these facts which caused Besgrove to give the order not to pursue the fleeing men and, having deduced correctly what had happened, for the Cordoba’s buggy to be retrieved. Without waiting to make sure he was obeyed, knowing he would be, he swung from the saddle. Leaving his mount standing ground hitched by its dangling split-ended reins, he hurried to the smallest of the shapes lying on the ground. Even before he produced a match from his trousers’ pocket and struck a light, he knew who this was.
‘God damn it!’ the Englishman snarled as he gazed at the lifeless body of the girl, his face savage in the flickering light. ‘Somebody is going to live to regret this!’
~*~
Becoming aware of thunder crashing and hearing the drumming of heavy rain somewhere above him, Sergeant Waxahachie Smith found himself struggling desperately against what felt like choking water filling his mouth and nostrils. After a moment, although the sounds of the storm continued, the sensation ebbed away. It was replaced by a similar feeling, except it was even worse, to that he had experienced when regaining consciousness in the bottom of the arroyo where he had been thrown by his horse, and later on his first recovery at the Rancho Mariposa. There was, nevertheless, one major difference. This time he was aware of his identity. The problem facing him was that he knew neither where he was nor what had reduced him to his present condition. While there was no soreness from his ribs, his hands hurt and his head throbbed abominably.
Gritting his teeth, the sergeant tried to raise his head from the pillow upon which it rested. Instantly, he found his already restricted vision blurring and it seemed the small room, which instincts suggested he had not occupied of his own free will, seemed to start spinning crazily around him. After an indefinite period, which could have been hours or only a few seconds for all he knew, the spasm passed and he opened his eyes without it resuming. For a short while, he felt too weak to do anything more than lie on his back and look at the grimy board ceiling. Then he told himself that he must make an effort to solve the mystery of his presence.
Thinking and doing, Smith warned himself, could prove two vastly different propositions. He had a vague recollection of two earlier resumptions of semi sentience. On each occasion, presumably having been alerted by the noise he had made in his attempt to rise, a pair of hard faced men he remembered seeing among the hired guns at Flamingo had entered. One had pinned him down, with an ease which warned just how weakened a condition he was in, while the other had poured some kind of liquid between his lips and, by covering his mouth and nose, compelled him to drink it. They had continued to prevent him from moving, or even shouting for help, until he had lapsed once again into an unconscious state.
Moving very slowly, trying to avoid making the cheap and narrow bed squeak and give notice of his actions, the sergeant eased himself until seated with his back resting against the rough hewn wall. After the wave of dizziness and near nausea subsided sufficiently to make it possible, turning his gaze downwards, he found he was wearing the shirt he had had on during the visit he paid to the Cantina del Chili Con Came which was his last conscious memory. Although he could feel his boots had been removed, he also knew he had on a pair of trousers.
However, Smith’s attempt to recollect what had taken place at the cantina was forgotten as he noticed both hands were wrapped in grubby white bandages. Nor was that all. Something was different about the shape of them. Before he could decide what this might be, another surge of dizziness and nausea flooded through him. Twisting his torso sideways in an instinctive motion, he retched violently albeit without bringing up anything. What was more, when the spasm ended, he was once again prevented from satisfying his curiosity. Hearing the creaking of hinges, he looked around. With a sensation of alarm, he saw the two men entering and guessed what they would do on finding he was sentient.
‘He’s woke up again, Dip,’ announced the taller of the pair, taking a bottle from the pocket of his unfastened wolfskin jacket.
‘Looks that way, Skull,’ the other answered. ‘I’ve allus heard’s how sleep’s good for them’s be suffering from his kind of hurt.’
‘So’ve I,’ declared the first speaker, whose completely bald head and cadaverous face suggested how he had acquired his sobriquet. ‘Which being, let’s give him some of this medicine of Doc Grantz’s to make him get some.’
Realizing the liquid must be some kind of sleeping potion, Smith tried to gather sufficient strength to resist having it forced upon him. Leering in an evil fashion and clearly enjoying what they were going to do, the pair converged upon him. Reaching beneath the blanket which was his only covering, Dip grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him until he was once again supine. Never had he felt so weak and utterly helpless. The sudden movement to which he was subjected brought a resumption of the dizziness and nausea. He could do nothing more than struggle feebly as his assailant transferred the grip to his shoulders and pressed downwards. Preventing Skull from grasping his face and forcibly opening his mouth was beyond his powers. Nor was he any better able to avoid having some of the liquid poured between his opened lips and being compelled by the same means as previously to swallow it.
‘Would this here be a private game,’ asked a voice with a Texas accent, just before the sergeant lapsed once more into an unconscious state. ‘Or can anybody sit in?’
Chapter Thirteen – You’ve Lost Both Forefingers
On hearing the question, Skull and Dip looked at the door through which they had entered the room and started to straighten up from where they were bending over the once more limp body of Sergeant Waxahachie Smith. Believing their privacy would be
respected, they had not closed the door before crossing to return him to the unconscious condition from which he had just partially recovered; as they were under orders from Teodoro Fuentes to keep doing for the next week. Customers of the small combined hotel and saloon in a dilapidated little village on the northern boundary of Bonham County did not usually show such obvious interest in the affairs of others. The reticence was caused by the owner of the establishment drawing the majority of his trade from the criminal element. His association with outlaws had made him willing to oblige when receiving a request from Don Jose Lorenzo Rabena, therefore amounting to a demand, to supply them with the necessary accommodation, and they had brought their captive there in the belief that nobody would pay any attention to their activities. However, it seemed the unwritten rule of the place was being broken.
Although it was late on Monday evening, no word had reached the pair of the events which had taken place on Sunday night along the trail between the Rancho Mariposa and the Union Jack, or its aftermath. Being unaware of how drastically the situation had changed, nobody who could have done so having come to warn them, they were continuing to carry out the instructions they had received from Doctor Otto Grantz by ensuring their captive remained in a state of sedation. Their arrival in his room had been by chance, not because they had heard him moving. However, they had no desire for strangers to see him or guess what they had intended to do.
The abductors had seen the speaker and the man by his side in the bar-room. They had arrived accompanied by two red haired young cowhands who were clearly twin brothers and gave the impression of having drunk just a little more than was wise. However, apart from supposing the youngsters were to be relieved of their money and other property by the other two, in keeping with the policy of the place— although one’s appearance had been worthy of more than a second glance—Skull and Dip had paid little attention to any of them. What was more, until that moment, they had conveyed an impression of being solely concerned with their own affairs.