The daystar climbed higher into a nuclear, gray morning sky finding the lawmen in no hurry to get back up the hill to watch the folks in the desert settlement of Broken Hill, nothing was happening down there with the sun high overhead.
Two hours before sunset, they started back up the hill to their vantage point. “I sure hope McDaniel pulls out tonight,” Curtis said. “I could use a night in town, a good bed, maybe something to eat.”
Bardwell laughed.
“Really,” Curtis said. “Sometimes I think they sent me out here to starve to death with your old crabby, ass.”
Down in the valley, men rolled barrels of kerosene to the flying ship now that the sun was setting in the dirty sky behind the ridge. Bardwell had a glance before turning over the field glasses. The flying ship was placarded MIL MI-8. It was an ugly machine as far as the lawman was concerned.
Bundles of what he suspected as being long grass were loaded. Other than that, the tiny hamlet was quiet.
“I don’t know how you know this shit, Sir,” Curtis said. “But you were right. They’re fixing to pull out tonight.”
Bardwell didn’t answer.
The lawmen kept up the vigil for three hours when a tall framed gentleman walked out to look over the ship.
“Is that McDaniel?” Curtis asked, glancing through the field glasses.
“Describe him,” Bardwell answered.
“Tall,” Curtis said. “He has black hair. It looks dirty. Leather breeches and a black canvas coat.”
“Sounds like him,” Bardwell said. “What is he doing?” At this distance and with the onset of age, the activity could have been ants in the dirt for all Bardwell could tell.
“Just looking things over,” Curtis said. “He’s talking with another fellow, pointing at the ship.”
“The pilot,” Bardwell said. “Try to get a look at his face if you can. Remember it.”
Curtis closed his eyes trying to remember the face in the glass. “Why?” he asked.
“We’ll want to make sure that he doesn’t live to fly one of these things again,” Bardwell said. His voice was dark and cold, distant.
“Got you,” Curtis answered.
Just as the daystar became a memory, McDaniel and the other gentleman climbed aboard. The great engines whined in getting the rotary wings moving. Dust whirled on the valley floor below.
“Seven-thirty for Los Angeles and points beyond,” Curtis said laughing. “The seven-thirty is now leaving the station. Have your tickets out and ready when the conductor passes.”
Bardwell smiled. It was good to have the boy along to break the monotony of living in the wild these days. There was a time—a long time—when he would have rather worked alone.
The flying machine lifted off circling over the hills in their direction with both lawmen easing back up closer to the tree. The Russian-made craft climbed higher into the gathering darkness pointing its nose to the south and west before the night swallowed it whole. There was nothing left but the sound of its wings thumping the still night.
With no thoughts of the flying ship returning from above, the lawmen kindled a small fire to boil a can of coffee. Curtis busied himself transcribing his notes of the past few days into a legible hand. Bardwell walked down the hill in search of a rabbit for supper.
“This beats the hell out of dried beef,” Curtis said of the roasted rabbit, a staple in Bardwell’s diet it seemed.
Bardwell nodded removing the cork from a bottle they had carried up the hill for a long pull. He placed the stop back in the bottle and lay back against his saddle closing his eyes.
***
It was late the following after median when the pair of dusty lawmen rode into Desert Spring for the second time in a week. The horses were unsaddled and fed at the livery stable and a room was rented for the night.
“Now I’m not one to complain about sleeping in a good bed,” Curtis said. “But why is it that we’re back in town, Sir?”
“I want to see a man about something,” Bardwell said, walking under the shade of an awning along the street through town.
“You’re up to something,” Curtis said, lighting a new cigar. “I know it.”
Bardwell smiled pulling back the door of the mercantile.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” the proprietor asked to the ringing of the bell over the door.
“Whiskey, coffee, tobacco,” Bardwell said, having a good look around the place. He let the order sink in before continuing. “You got any dynamite in these parts? Me and the boy want to have some fun up in the hills,” he asked.
The merchant laid out the requested goods on his counter. “Sorry, Mister,” he said. “I ain’t got any dynamite, but I’ve got something else that might interest you?” He motioned the lawmen to follow into a back room behind the store.
In a few old wood crates, the merchant had boxes marked FLARES and M61 GRENADES.
“They look just like dynamite,” Curtis said of the paper wrapped red sticks. “What do they do?”
“These here things,” the merchant replied. “Don’t blow up like dynamite. They just burn like hell for fifteen minutes or so and put off smoke and pink flame.”
“And these…?” Bardwell asked the crate marked M61.
“Now these here,” the merchant said. “These will blow up. Shoot cast iron in every direction when they do. If you boys are interested in trying a few of them out, I’d sure caution you to be careful with ‘em.”
“How do they work, Mister?” Curtis asked, looking the ancient implements over well.
“You snap the cap off these and strike it like this,” the merchant said simulating the use of the road flares. “And these here,” he continued. “You just squeeze the handle and pull the pin, but you’ll want to throw them well away from where you’re standing when you do.”
Curtis nodded his understanding of what the man was saying.
“These explode too?” Bardwell asked, looking over a similar looking device further back in the unlit room.
“No,” the merchant said. “They just give off the awful’est smelling gas you ever wanted to be around. Some folks say that it makes their eyes tear up something fierce?”
“You spare a dozen of each?” Bardwell asked. “And we’ll need us a sack or two to carry them in.”
The merchant got busy searching out first, a haversack made of leather and one of tarred canvas for the devices, then laid out twelve flares, twelve fragmentation grenades, and an even dozen of the teargas canisters.
“I can let you gentlemen have it all for three dollars?” he said, from the back room of his store.
Bardwell nodded his agreement starting for the front of the place and the rest of the goods on the counter.
“Fifteen dollars gentlemen,” the merchant said, once he had tallied up a total for the supplies that would keep the lawmen for a few more days
Bardwell paid in silver coins. The merchant smiled raking the money across the counter. “Are you fellows new in these parts?’ he asked, making small talk. “I ain’t ever seen you two ‘round here?”
“No,” Bardwell said. “We’ve been around for most of the last week. A fellow that we work for is looking to purchase some land in the hills to run his cattle. We’re surveying the area for him. Should be around another few days before we can strike out for home?”
“Well, Mister,” the merchant said. “You be sure and stop by if you need anything else from us here in town. We’re always glad to meet strangers in these parts.”
“There is one more thing that you might be able to help us with,” Bardwell said. “Folks ‘round these parts have been warning us to stay away from a fellow goes by the name of Black McDaniel and a town called Broken Hill?”
Color flushed out of the merchant like he had just seen a ghost. “Well, Sir,” the merchant said. “I reckon that you’ve been warned right. Black McDaniel and his bunch ain’t the kind of folk you want to go messing with. They got a place a day’s ride south of here. I’ve
heard all kind of evil things about the man and the village.”
“What kind of evil things?” Curtis asked.
“Took to growing long grass several calendars ago,” the merchant said. “They were all smoking it before too long. I’ve heard that they’ve sold off all the children to willing buyers in Arroyo de las Vegas?” The merchant paused, “You take my word for it Son. You don’t want to be caught up with that McDaniel or his kind. You just stay as far away from them as you can get.”
“Thank you for all of your help this day, Sir,” Bardwell said. “And we’ll take your advice into consideration if we have reason to travel south of here.”
The merchant smiled at the sale and raised a hand to wave as the lawmen stepped back out into the warm evening.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The remainder of the evening played out well with the lawmen seated in the saloon and having a couple of drinks. A gentleman ground out of tune piano keys in the corner. No one seemed to be bothered with his efforts.
“I see that you gentlemen made it back into town,” the barkeep said, pouring the first glass of whiskey for the night.
Bardwell smiled and nodded. “Yes, Sir,” he said. “A fella can’t stay off away from town for long before he starts getting the itch to see some folks”
“What is it that has you gentlemen in town anyway?” the barkeep asked, slinging a dirty towel over his shoulder.
“My partner and I,” Bardwell replied, using a line that had worked so well earlier with the merchant. “We’re surveying a place in the mountains west of here. The gentleman who hired us is looking for a place to run cattle.”
The barkeep bought the line. “We could sure use something like that here in these parts,” he said. “We used to buy our cattle south in Broken Hill until those folks down there sort of fell off.”
“Fell off what?” Curtis asked, laughing.
“They fell right off the face of the earth for all we know,” the barkeep said. “Those folks are doing some weird shit down there from what I hear.”
One of the sporting gals slid up close to Curtis and whispered in his ear. The boy smiled. Bardwell nodded his agreement.
The barkeep poured the remaining alcohol from the glasses and bottles along the bar into a bucket for later use.
“It looks as though you lost your partner for the night?” he said, watching the boy and the gal depart for a room upstairs.
“Aw,” Bardwell said. “I can’t expect the boy to do without while we’re living out here in the wilds.”
The barkeep smiled as he continued to pour into the bucket that he kept behind the bar.
***
Four o’clock the next afternoon found the lawmen riding back to their campsite under the trees. A quick glance over the ridge was all that was required to see that the flying machine was not there. Neither expected it to be.
Sticks and branches were gathered for the fire. The skins filled with cool, clean water. The lawmen had decided to move the camp a few paces up the hill to be closer to the ridgeline where they watched over the desert settlement below.
“So what’s the plan, Sir,” Curtis asked. “If I might ask, is there a plan or are we going to wing it like we always do?”
“Well,” Bardwell said. “I was fixing to talk with you about that tonight when we get up to the ridge, but I reckon now is as good a time as any?”
Curtis nodded his agreement.
“I reckon we should wait until they return from New Mexico, Friday night,” Bardwell said, starting in with his plan.
“Why wait for Friday?” Curtis asked. “If they follow a schedule of sort, we should see them back Monday late?”
“Too many innocents,” Bardwell replied. “They fly in with a new load on Monday. Friday they come home empty. Besides,” he continued. “If they repeat what we’ve seen already, they all go indoors as soon as they land. That will give us plenty of time to raise a little hell before we go into town.”
“What do you have in mind?” Curtis asked.
“I’m thinking that we set the fields afire down to the south end of the village,” Bardwell said. “With everyone asleep or indoors, we should have plenty of time to run back up to this end of town?”
“So you want to draw them out into the open then?”
“Away from the flying ship,” Bardwell said. “Once they see their crops going up in flame, I reckon every able bodied man will run in that direction. I want a minute or two with that flying machine before we get things started in earnest.”
The senior lawman thought for a moment. “There’s a hut close to the flying ship where they roll the kerosene. We’ll know for sure tomorrow night when they return. I figure that we can set both the hut and that machine ablaze before any of them figure out that we’re there. Then we work our way to the barns where they cure that long grass. I reckon those flares should make quick work of that?”
“We’re going to take the place out then?” Curtis asked.
Bardwell nodded. “I don’t want a trace of it left when we ride out of here the next morning.”
“And those folks living down there,” Curtis asked.
“We kill any that get in our way,” Bardwell said.
That flying machine of the ancients did return Monday night. The lawmen were at their post in the trees to witness the arrival with field glasses and notepad in hand. Both incoming freight and barrels of precious kerosene were offloaded, but there were no bodies this time.
A good sign as far as Bardwell figured. If and when they decided to make their move, there would be that many fewer names to write in the book of souls. The Sacramento lawman had written many in his years. Most deserved to be included among the faded pages. There were some that didn’t, bystanders that had stumbled into harm’s way once the shooting started.
What hurt the worst were the names of the few children that were included in the dusty old leather-bound book that he had carried through the years. Miscommunication and poor intelligence gathering led to most of the deaths. Some couldn’t be helped.
Down there in the valley among the shacks and boarded windows, the heartbreak, and broken dreams, there were children, children that for some unknown reason, the good Lord had turned his back upon. At this point—after a steady diet of Heroin and long grass—their souls were past saving. Now they were the ruined, mindless zombies created for the sex trade in Arroyo de Las Vegas and nothing more. They no longer had it in them to kick or struggle or run. Willing players now in this ugly game, they were.
Other than McDaniel and the gentleman who he believed to operate the machine, Bardwell had no plans to kill anyone, although he knew that there would be casualties during a mission of this magnitude. Once the fires were started out here in the desert settlement, there would be no turning back. Lives would be lost, but if all traces of Broken Hill could be wiped from the map, maybe it would be for the better.
In the dirt under the tree on the hill, Bardwell drew out something resembling the village on the valley floor with a short stick.
“We’ll start our fires off to the south,” Bardwell said, in going over the plan again. He did this as much to get it right in his mind as he did to have the boy understand what it was that they would do.
“So we put the flame to it and run back up to this end?” Curtis said, looking down on the quiet village. “That means we run a mile or more,” he asked. “Think you’re up for it?”
“No one will know,” Bardwell said. “For the first few minutes, anyway, hell, we might have close to an hour, before any of them figure it out?” He nodded his answer, “Don’t worry about me.”
“How long are going to give them,” Curtis asked. “Once that flying machine returns?”
Bardwell looked down the hill to a clump of scrub in a dry wash just north of the settlement.
“I plan to be up here by midnight or one,” he said. “The horses saddled and ready to ride. Once that machine is secured and everyone heads in for the night, we can star
t for those trees there to the north in that wash. We tie the horses and start walking for the fields over there.” He said pointing to the south end of the settlement with the stick.
“Those fields are dry, Sir,” Curtis said, as an aside. “We put the flame to it and it’s going to go fast.”
“That’s the plan,” Bardwell said, looking down the hill.
“Are we going back into town,” Curtis asked. “Or are we staying up here?”
“As much as I’d like to sleep in town for a night or two,” Bardwell said. “I reckon that we should remain here. We can get a better idea of how these folk operate and after what you did to that mule skinner it might be good for us to stay well away from that place. We’ve got everything that we could want here.”
“I figured you’d say that,” Curtis said, striking a sulfur match against the sole of his boot. Smoke from the cigar veiled the boy’s features in blue, hiding his young appearance.
“We can strike camp and ride in,” Bardwell said. “If you think that we should?”
“No, no,” Curtis said, drawing on his smoke. “I reckon that you’re right, Sir. I just want to get this over with and start for home.” He paused, thinking. “I don’t figure any of the dispatch riders will know where to find us and we might make it there before they send us out again?”
Bardwell laughed, “If we could only be so lucky.”
***
The remainder of the week passed with the lawmen keeping vigil from the small cluster of trees on the hill. After coffee was boiled for the morning, Bardwell would start up the hill for a look each morning with a dented tin cup in his hand. The boy was allowed to sleep as long as he wished. It was hard on a man—this job—and with little to do for the moment, the senior lawman let him rest. Enough would be expected of the boy in a few days and it was a long ride back to civilization from this lonely place in the badlands.
Overall the week spent in the hills overlooking Broken Hill was enjoyable. There were plenty of rabbits in the area to roast over a small fire and at least they weren’t in the saddle chasing some outlaw or desperado halfway across hell and back. They knew where to find their prey, the man they were after, Black McDaniel.
Ain't No Law in California Page 19