by Ralph Cotton
With the small fire banked against being seen either along the low hill line or out across the sand flats, they slept under the overhang, outlaw and lawman, each in what small and tenuous space they’d claimed for themselves on the hard belly of the earth.
During the night, his Winchester leaning against a rock beside his saddle, Sam’s eyes opened at the faintest sound of something on the hillside trail above them, back in the direction of El Ricon. Awake, he lay listening, his eyes moving across Bonsell’s sleeping face, his Colt ready to take on anything the night presented. Yet, after a long silence, the whole of his senses probing and searching the darkness all around him, he heard nothing else foreign to the night; and he let his eyes close again and went lightly back to sleep.
Before dawn the two awakened, first the Ranger, then the prisoner. Bonsell sat up smelling the aroma of fresh coffee boiling in the pot over a thin fire. He looked over at the Ranger who sat staring at him, a tin cup steaming in his gloved hand.
“What is this big job Kane has lined up?” he asked flatly, assuming Bonsell would know.
“Nice try, Ranger . . . ,” Bonsell said, still waking up, pushing a cuffed hand back through his dark, tangled hair. “But Kane never tells a man more than he needs to know until the time comes.”
“You said he sent for the Bluebird,” the Ranger said, “so we know it has to be something hard to get to. Not something he can goad somebody into giving up from a money drawer or a strongbox.”
“Yep, I’d say that’s a fair guess,” said Bonsell. He jiggled his cuffed hand; Sam half rose, stepped around, unlocked the cuffs and sat back down.
Rubbing his wrist, Bonsell reached out, filled his waiting tin cup and sat back. He blew on the coffee and sipped it. Sam watched and waited. He’d learned that Teddy Bonsell always let something slip, said more by accident than he intended to without being pushed or pressured.
“Tell me about the jail break again,” Sam said, sipping his coffee.
“Again . . . ?” Bonsell sighed into his steaming cup. “I didn’t leave nothing out about it, Ranger.”
“I just like hearing it,” Sam said, watching, listening.
“I bet you do like hearing it,” Bonsell said with sarcasm. “All us Golden Riders getting blown out of our eyebrows.”
“Why do you think the Bluebird used such a high charge?” Sam asked, ignoring Bonsell’s remark. “It doesn’t take near that much to rip out a jail window. He blew one man out into the street, bars and all. Half of Midland Siding is having to be rebuilt or repaired.”
“Putting blame where blame’s due,” said Bonsell, “a lot of that explosion came from the mercantile store’s firing powder.”
“Still,” the Ranger continued, “the explosion wouldn’t have reached the mercantile if the Bluebird hadn’t used so much to blow the jail window.”
“You’ve got me there, Ranger,” said Bonsell. “I know he nearly killed us all. I still have ringing in my head if I turn a certain way.”
“You figure the Bluebird always carries that much dynamite?” Sam asked, trying to get a lead on what Kane had in mind for the Mexican-Indian to do.
“A man who makes his own dynamite can carry as much as he wants to, I expect,” said Bonsell.
“You’ve got a point . . . ,” Sam replied, but he wasn’t buying it. Nobody carried dynamite unless they needed it, especially a man who knew its strength, who’d spent his life witnessing its powerful devastation.
Changing the subject from the Bluebird, Sam looked all around the rugged, desolate terrain.
“Braxton Kane found him a nice safe hole to crawl into, I’ll give him that,” he said.
Bonsell gave him a short, nasty grin, unable to keep his contempt for the law hidden for too long at a time.
“You’re going to give him more than that when he gets you in his sights,” he said. “Killing Cordy Kane was the worst mistake you ever made.”
Sam ignored his remark and tried to keep him focused on some kind of revealing conversation.
“How far do the Golden Riders go to pull a robbery?” he asked quietly.
“As far as Braxton Kane wants them to go,” said Bonsell. “High Montana, except there ain’t nothing there—deep Mexico, if it’s gold, and if there’s enough of it to make it worth the ride.”
“Montana’s got gold, too,” Sam said, listening for anything he might need. “Better grade of gold at that.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Bonsell shrugged. “I was just making a point.” He paused, then said out of the blue, “Kane’s been spending lots of time around Sonoyta, up around the crossing? See, if I was a lawman, I’d be smart enough to figure he might be up to something there.” He tapped his head to indicate his ingeniousness. “But that’s just me.” He grinned at his cleverness.
Sam’s mind piqued up at his words, but he kept his demeanor calm, unmoved.
“Naw, I don’t think so,” he said coolly. “There’s nothing there.”
“Ha, that shows what you know,” Bonsell said. “Cordy and I rode up there right before we got you stuck on our trail.”
“Yeah? So what?” Sam said.
“So, I heard him and Cordy through an open window when we got back. He was giving Cordy the devil for taking me with him. Cordy lied, told him he didn’t take me all way there with him. Said we split off and met again later in El Ricon.”
Sam worked the information across his mind.
“Still,” Sam said, “there’s nothing in Sonoyta that would need a dynamite man carrying as much as the Bluebird is carrying. Sonoyta means nothing.” He shook his head.
Bonsell gave him a sour look. Sam could tell the cocksure outlaw didn’t like his ideas being disputed, especially by a sworn enemy, a lawman.
“Maybe not now,” Bonsell said, “but there’s a rail spur going on south of there. Once it’s up and going, it’ll cause Sonoyta to spring up like Abilene. ’Course you might be too shortsighted to see it.”
“Yep, I expect so, Teddy,” Sam said, getting the picture, wondering why the Mexican government or anyone else would build a rail spur south of Sonoyta. “Get your coffee finished, Teddy. We’re going to ride up closer to Kane’s place, take ourselves a look.” He pushed himself up, dusted the seat of his trousers and slung coffee grounds from his tin cup.
Sonoyta, huh . . . ?
He’d keep it mind, Sam told himself, picking up his rifle and saddle and turning to the horses.
• • •
With no tracks left to follow across the sand flats, the Ranger kept to the low, rocky hillside, Bonsell riding in front of him. The two took a longer trail circling above the wet sand flats and came to the same place they would have had they crossed the low desert floor. Following a trail upward a half mile, Bonsell stopped and held his horse out of sight just below the crest of a hill.
“Right over this edge, we’ll start seeing Kane’s place as we get closer,” he said.
“Then let’s go,” Sam said.
“The thing is, they’ll be able to see us too if we ain’t careful,” said Bonsell. “If they see us now, they’ll kill you, and just as likely kill me for bringing you here.”
“Then you’d best see to it we are careful,” Sam said.
“If he’s got rifle guards out, we’ll never get past them, Ranger,” Bonsell said, having a change of heart now that they were down to the killing edge of the game. “Don’t you understand what I’m saying here? They’ll kill us both!”
Sam saw the raw fear in his eyes now that they’d reached their destination.
“I understand what you’re saying. Let’s go,” he ordered Bonsell quietly. “Whatever made you think you’d live forever?” He reached out and slapped Bonsell’s horse on its rump.
The horse bolted upward; Bonsell’s lower lip trembled in fear and anger.
“That’s a hell of thing to say, R
anger—!” he shouted over his shoulder, yanking back on his horse’s reins even as it bounded up over the crest of the hill. Coming over the crest right behind him, the Ranger sidled close and slapped the horse’s rump again to keep Bonsell from pulling it back.
“Keep moving, Teddy!” the Ranger shouted.
“Damn it to hell, Ranger! Stop slapping my horse!” Bonsell shouted. “What’s wrong with you?” But Sam would have none of it. A third time he slapped the horse’s rump. The horse almost reared against Bonsell’s tight-handed reins.
“Take us to cover, Teddy,” he shouted at Bonsell.
Seeing the Ranger was not going to let up, Bonsell lessened his grip on the reins and let the horse settle onto all fours and dart forward. He looked at the big stone, timber and adobe house in the distance and even gave his horse a hard bat of his boots.
Sam followed right at his side as the two raced to a stand of rock and trees thirty yards away. As the horses moved into the cover and the two men brought them to a sliding halt, Sam turned and looked at Bonsell.
“Looks like his rifle guards must’ve taken the day off,” he said.
“It’s a good thing for us if they did,” Bonsell said, still a little out of breath. “You would have gotten us both killed otherwise.”
“Nobody’s fired a shot, Teddy,” Sam said. “For all we know there’s nobody here.”
“Brax Kane would never leave this place unguarded,” said Bonsell. “It might be they’re just waiting for us to get closer, then open up on us.”
“It might be,” Sam said, not convinced. He looked all around on the ground and found the tracks of two horses that had to have been made after the storm. He thought about the sound he thought he’d heard in the night up along the hill trail from the direction of El Ricon. His eyes followed the prints from where they came into sight from brush and rock and led straight toward the big house.
More Golden Riders showing up . . . ? he asked himself.
Before he could pursue the question any further, rifle shots exploded from the direction of the house. A second later return fire erupted from a stand of wild grass less than fifty yards from the house’s front door. A horse cried out in the grass as a bullet struck it. Sam saw it just as it fell out of sight, whinnying pitifully. A familiar-looking horse . . . ? He saw rifle smoke rise from behind a tree and saw glass break in the one of the house’s front windows.
“Looks like we’ve rode into a gun battle, Teddy,” Sam said, watching the gunfire from around the edge of a rock.
“Let them have it,” Bonsell said, “so long as it ain’t pointed in my direction.”
“Hunh-uh,” said Sam. “Get ready to ride. I think they’re in the grass on my side.”
“You think they are? But you don’t know for sure?” Bonsell asked.
“That’s all we got for now,” said Sam. “Are you going to ride on your own, or do I have to keep smacking your horse’s rump all the way?”
“You’re going to get us shot!” said Bonsell. As they spoke, bullets whizzed back and forth between the outlaw hideout and the guns blazing in the grass.
“No, I’m not,” Sam said hurriedly, “not if you do like I say. I saw a barn twenty yards on the right side of the house. We’re making a run for it. Stay in front of me and keep your horse at a run. There’s a good chance we’ll make it.”
“A good chance?” said Bonsell. “You’re crazy! I need better odds than a good chance!”
Sam drew his hand back as if ready to swat Bonsell’s horse on the rump.
“I don’t have time to argue with you, Teddy,” he said in a determined voice.
“Damn it, Ranger! Stop doing that!” Bonsell shouted. He turned in his saddle and batted his boots to his horse’s sides. “If I make it to the barn, I’m not going no farther. I swear I’m not!”
As soon as they rode out from behind the rocks, rifle fire from the house turned its attention away from the grass and in their direction. Sam fired his Colt as he rode, Bonsell lying low in his saddle only a few feet ahead of him. From the grass, the gunfire pounded steadily on the house, providing Sam and Bonsell cover until they directed their horses inside the open doors of the barn and leaped down from their saddles.
“Ha! That wasn’t so bad,” Bonsell said, now that the rifle fire couldn’t reach them. “As far as I’m concerned—”
“I’m going in,” Sam said, cutting Bonsell off. He reloaded his Colt as he spoke. Outside, the firing continued heavily back and forth.
Sam saw a determined look come to Bonsell’s eyes.
“Go on ahead, Ranger, shoot them curs!” he said. “I’ll stick right here and see to it our horses are safe.”
“Obliged, Teddy,” Sam said. Then he reached out from behind his back with his handcuffs and snapped one around Bonsell’s wrist. “You can watch about the horses from over here.” He dragged the outlaw to a stall door and snapped the other cuff around an iron hinge.
“Ranger, you can’t leave me here handcuffed! What if they kill you? What happens to me?”
“Then you’ll have to tell a good story, how I made you bring me here,” Sam said. He grabbed his rifle from his saddle boot and ran out the barn door in a crouch toward the side of the house, catching the riflemen on their blind side as they fired into the grass and trees.
Chapter 22
The gunfire from the trees and grass kept the gunmen busy in the front of the house while Sam ran in a crouch and took cover at the side wall, out of sight. Seeing him trying to take position, the gunfire from the grass grew even heavier. Sam ran alongside the house, found a half-filled rain barrel and rolled it on its bottom edge over to the window standing ten feet above the ground.
As the gunfire thumped into the front of the house and zipped along past him, he leaned his rifle against the wall, placed a short plank across the top of the barrel and climbed atop it.
Here goes. . . .
Gripping the ledge of the open window, he climbed up and rolled over the ledge and crashed onto a landing on a staircase. Hearing his entrance, two gunmen turned toward him from the front window, their rifles already firing.
Sam flattened on the landing and stuck his Colt out between two ballasts and returned fire. His rapid shots hit one man twice in the chest and sent him flying backward through the window onto the front porch. The other man threw a jammed rifle aside and grabbed for a shotgun leaning against a chair. But before he got the shotgun leveled to fire, another shot from Sam’s Colt sent him stumbling backward against the wall. He slid down as the shotgun fell from his hands.
The Ranger stood and walked down the stairs, one step at a time with caution. He heard the back door slam shut behind a pounding of boots across the back porch. With only one round left in his smoking Colt, he shoved the gun into its holster and drew the big clumsy LeMat from where it stood in his waist. A long strip of rawhide ran through a lanyard on its butt and looped up around Sam’s neck.
“Don’t—Don’t shoot, please . . . !” the wounded man leaning against the wall pleaded, seeing the big gun in the Ranger’s hand.
“Don’t make me,” Sam replied, stepping closer, the big LeMat out and cocked, already feeling heavy in his hand. Out front in the tall grass the shooting had waned to a halt. “How many of you are here?” he demanded.
Gripping his bloody chest, the wounded man tossed a glance toward the front window.
“Barnes and me, now,” he said. He gestured to the rear of the house and added, “Those . . . two jackrabbits . . . couldn’t stick.”
“So I noticed,” Sam said, hearing boots pound around the side of the house and take off across open ground. He kicked the shotgun aside and leaned enough to look out the front window. He saw Joey Rose, his face covered with gauze like a mummy, and John Garlet running, guns blazing in their hands. Garlet ran shirtless, covered in bandage and gauze from his waist up. His right arm was thic
kly plastered and held up shoulder-level, a diagonal iron rod running up from his hip, supporting his elbow.
Sam watched them run twenty yards before a concentrated volley of gunfire cut them both down.
“Hey . . . ,” said the wounded man, tugging a bloody hand at Sam’s trouser leg. “I’m dying here . . . ain’t I?” he said, his voice sounding weak, starting to wheeze in his bleeding chest.
“I believe you are,” Sam said evenly. He stooped and started to untie a bandanna from around the man’s neck, to hold against the flow of blood. But the man shook his head weakly. “No need in a bandage,” he wheezed. His dimming eyes went to the big LeMat in Sam’s hand. “Obliged . . . you not shooting me with that.”
“Think nothing of it,” Sam said quietly. He lowered the LeMat, feeling the weight of it hang on the rawhide strip.
Seeing the gun not pointed at him, the wounded man looked relieved.
“I was . . . making good . . . tending bar . . . then this,” he said. His head lolled to one side, bobbed once and lay there, his dead eyes staring aimlessly across the room.
“We make our choices . . . ,” Sam said quietly, knowing the man wasn’t listening. He stood up, shoved the LeMat back down in his waist and raised his Colt from its holster and began reloading.
“Ranger Burrack,” a voice called out from the direction of the tall grass.
Hearing a familiar voice, Sam stepped over and stood in the open front window. He raised a hand and waved it back and forth slowly. He gave a slight smile and shook his head to himself, seeing Sheriff Schaffer and the Delmar twins walking toward the house from the grass and tree line. Lindsey helped the limping sheriff move along, both her hands supporting his forearm. Sam could see a wide strip of cloth circling Schaffer’s leg just above his knee.