Black Valley Riders

by Ralph Cotton

  Lucas shook his head, picked up his top hat and put it on. “I don’t know why I bother . . . ,” he murmured under his breath. He settled onto the buggy seat, feeling better now that two gunmen were flanking him. “You know Clato Charo and his band of Comadrejas roaming out here.

  “Clato and his Desert Weasels?” Epson looked all around, concerned, as if just saying the name might conjure up the band of desert killers. “Those sonsabitches give me the willies.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Duckwald asked. He stepped his horse in closer beside his brother-in-law.

  “The army came through Minton Hill a week ago,” said Lucas. “They said they’d been hunting Charo and his warriors the past month.” Lucas grinned, liking the way he’d unsettled the two gunmen. “The Comadrejas would slit a man gills to gullet to get their hands on a crate of this pure Missouri Red Rye whiskey.”

  “Rudy’s right. We should get moving,” Epson said, growing more wary at the thought of a band of wild-eyed Comadrejas riding down on them from the hill line.

  “Indeed we should . . . and indeed we will,” Lucas said. As he spoke, he reached into the crate, pulled up a bottle and jerked the cork from it. “First, let’s get ourselves a little shot of grit and determination, just to keep our devils settled, eh, George? In case Charo kills us in our sleep.” He raised the bottle and took a long swig.

  “I don’t like that kind of talk,” Epson said, still looking all around. But as soon as Lucas lowered the bottle from his lips, George reached out to take it, only to see Duckwald snatch it from Lucas’ hand.

  “Sorry, George,” said Lucas with a shrug as Duckwald took a long pull on the fiery rye, “age before beauty, as they say.”

  When Duckwald lowered the bottle and let out a hard belch, he passed it on to Epson. “Hurry it up. We’re in a bad spot here for an ambush.”

  Epson took a long drink and passed the bottle back to Lucas, who looked at it and shook his head. Then he corked the nearly empty bottle and put it back inside the crate. “Gentlemen,” he said, “let us proceed.”

  “After you, I insist,” Duckwald said in a mocking surly voice, letting the gambler know that he didn’t trust him riding behind his back.

  Lucas gave a slight chuckle and sent the buggy horse forward with a quick cluck of his cheek and a touch of the reins. They rode on in silence.

  A half hour later as the assemblage of buggy and horsemen rode upward on a path leading to a higher trail, Elmer Fisk stepped his horse from behind a white oak and waved his hat toward a hillside covered with saguaro and juniper. When Lucas and the other two joined him there, Fisk reached out expectantly for the bottle of rye as Lucas stopped the buggy horse.

  “What the hell is going on in Minton Hill?” Fisk asked as he jerked the cork from the bottle and took a long drink. He lowered the bottle, let out a hiss and said before Lucas could answer, “Where’s Baggett? Where’s Parsons and the others?”

  Lucas stared at him. “Good afternoon to you too, Elmer,” he said. He held his hand out for the bottle.

  But Elmer Fisk ignored him. He raised the bottle to his lips again, finished off the rye and tossed the empty bottle aside. “I don’t waste my time on worthless formalities, gambler,” he said, gruffly, wiping his shirt cuff across his lips.

  “In that case, let me tell you straightaway,” said Lucas. “Parsons is dead, so is Baggett . . . so are Bates and Riley.” He gave the outlaw a reproachful look. “There, now, is that informal enough for you?”

  “Damn!” said Fisk in surprise. “I heard all the shooting. I figured somebody was sucking air. But both Baggett, and the men he went there to meet? Damn! Who killed them, a railroad posse?”

  “No posse,” said Lucas. “It was that young ranger everybody’s been talking about. The one who killed Junior Lake and his gang.”

  “Samuel Burrack . . . ,” said Fisk. “I might have known they’d be sending that one after me before long. They want me awfully bad.”

  They . . . ? Lucas thought. After him . . . ?

  Epson, Duckwald and Lucas all three looked at one another.

  “The ranger killed them—all four?” Fisk asked the gambler.

  “No,” said Lucas. “The ranger had two marine bounty hunters with him.”

  “Two what?” Fisk asked.

  “Two United States Marines,” said Lucas. He stared, waiting for Fisk’s reaction.

  “Marines?” Fisk gave him a strange look. Gazing all around the dry desert hills in bewilderment for a moment, he finally said, “They’ve sent the navy after me?”

  “No, not the navy,” said Lucas. He sighed, reaching for another bottle of whiskey. “The marines.”

  “Either way, why’d they do something like that?” Fisk asked, still bewildered.

  “I can’t begin to guess,” Lucas replied, uncorking the bottle, realizing it was going to take a while before Crazy Elmer understood that this was not entirely about himself.

  “You said these two men are bounty hunters?” Epson said.

  “That’s right. They’re bounty hunters,” said the gambler. “I don’t think the navy sent them.” He gave Fisk a sarcastic look. “They didn’t ride in with the ranger. I believe the three just come upon one another in their quest for you Black Valley boys.” He turned his gaze back to Elmer Fisk. “They weren’t after you alone, Elmer, if that’s any consolation.”

  “Oh . . .” Elmer considered the matter, then said, “How come four good men are dead, and you’re still alive, gambler?”

  “Because I am not one of your gunmen, remember, Elmer?” said Lucas. “I only keep you informed.” He paused, then added, “For a price, of course.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be taken care of,” Fisk said grudgingly.

  “I suppose we’ll ride on back and kill these three, huh?” said Duckwald.

  Fisk looked contemplative. “Damn. We’ve got four men dead, and we were all supposed to meet up and join Shear and the others for the train job.” He rubbed his forehead beneath his hat brim.

  Duckwald looked at Epson and Fisk and repeated, “I suppose we’ll ride back to Minton Hill and—”

  “No,” said Fisk, cutting him short. “We’re going on and meeting up with Big Aces. It’s his gang. Let him decide what we need to do next.”

  Listening, Lucas looked away and shook his head. “I take it I won’t get paid anything for my services until we meet up with Shear?”

  “You’ve got that right, gambler,” said Fisk. “You’re Big Aces pet snake, not mine. Now strip that horse down and leave the buggy sitting. We’re crossing hard country. A buggy won’t get it.”

  “Where are we going?” Lucas asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Fisk. “You’ll know when we get there.”

  “Of course, how unthoughted of me,” Lucas said under his breath. “What about this whiskey?” he asked.

  Looking at Epson and Duckwald, Fisk said, “Stuff the bottles in your saddlebags. We’ll drink as much as we can to keep the rest from going to waste.”

  “Smart thinking,” said Lucas. He stood up from the buggy seat and climbed down, lifting the whiskey crate and carrying it with him.

  At the battered oak desk, the ranger and two bounty hunters watched Sheriff Braden sit down with the federal bills and gold coins he’d brought from the bank. When he’d counted the money, he placed his palms down on either side of the desk and pushed himself to his feet. Looking wistfully down at the cash, he said, “That’s a powerful lot of money, gentlemen.”

  Thorn picked up the bills and thumbed through them. “It was a powerful job we did to earn it, Sheriff,” he said. Beside him, Dee Sandoval raked the coins into a leather pouch and pulled its drawstring tight.

  “I meant no offense, sir,” Braden said to Thorn.

  “I took none, sir,” replied Thorn. He stuffed the folded bills into a pocket inside his duster and looked to the ranger, who stood cradling his Winchester, watching.

  “Ranger Burrack, we are ready to leav
e, if you are, sir.”

  “I’m ready,” said the ranger. The three had agreed to ride together as far as the hill line on the other side of the flatlands surrounding town. From there they would split up and ride the high trails separately, knowing that in all likelihood their paths would cross again, most any time.

  “As much as I’ll miss good company,” said Braden, as he followed the men out the door onto the boardwalk, “I’m glad to see the three of you clear on out of here. Minton Hill is not used to this kind of action. I left Dodge City for this very reason.”

  Stepping down to the hitch rail, Sam and the bounty hunters touched their hat brims toward the sheriff, mounted their waiting horses and rode away. Along the street, townsfolk stared as if watching a short parade as the three filed past. Riding a few feet ahead of Sandoval and the ranger, Thorn took off his battered hat and dipped it with an air of modest grandeur toward the onlookers.

  “It is his way,” Sandoval said quietly, as if Thorn’s behavior needed explaining. “We are bounty hunters now, but we’re still marines through and through.” He touched his gloved fist to his heart. “Semper fidelis,” he murmured in Latin, booting his horse forward.

  Always faithful . . . , the ranger reminded himself. He rode alongside Sandoval, the three of them following the fresh buggy tracks the gambler had left in the dirt street.

  When they had ridden out of Minton Hill, onto the rocky flatlands, the three stopped their horses and formed a huddle over the first broken whiskey bottle lying in the trail. Thorn sat with his left hand resting on the butt of his sword. He looked back toward town, then down at the broken bottle.

  “We were right about the gambler, Sandy,” he said to the younger man. “We squeezed him, turned him loose and he flew right on away.”

  “Good move,” said the ranger. “No gang this size can stay in business without eyes and ears like Lucas telling them where it’s safe to be.”

  Looking at the ranger, Thorn said, “Did you have any notion this place would be crawling with Black Valley Riders when you rode in?” As he spoke he pulled a pouch of chopped tobacco from inside his duster. He took out a plug between his thumb and fingers and passed the bag on to Sandoval.

  “No,” said Sam, “but this territory is full of surprises.” He looked the two bounty hunters up and down. “You two are a good example. I’m used to most bounty hunters stopping short at the badlands.”

  “Oh . . . ?” Thorn shoved the plug of tobacco into his jaw. “You’ll find we are not timid, Ranger. We never stop until a job is completed.”

  “Then you’ll do well here,” Sam said, taking the tobacco pouch as Sandoval handed it to him. “Or else you’ll end up dead.” He took out a small plug of chew and handed the pouch back to Thorn.

  The two bounty hunters looked at each other. “No gun work is more fair than that,” Thorn said dismissingly. He took the pouch and put it away. “What do you think of Sheriff Braden?”

  “He’s always been a good man,” the ranger said. “Not the best, but good.”

  “Is he a part of this bunch we’re after?” asked Thorn.

  “I doubt it,” said Sam.

  “But you won’t say he’s not,” Sandoval cut in.

  “I said ‘I doubt it,’ ” Sam repeated.

  “He talked like a man willing to bend things around for a taste of money,” Thorn said.

  “It didn’t happen, though,” Sam said.

  “Because he saw none of us would go for it,” Sandoval countered.

  “Right,” Sam said, “we showed him we all three walk straight. Sometimes that’s all a man needs to hold himself together.” He looked back and forth between the two men. “A man like Braden works out here alone, nobody like himself around. Sometimes he loses sight of what he’s supposed to be doing. Once a man gets off his axis, he starts thinking money will get him back on. It never does.”

  Thorn chewed his tobacco, spat and contemplated the matter. “So Braden’s offer of padding the reward money was just his way of asking us to lead him?”

  “Yes,” said Sam, “and us turning him down was our way of leading him right.” He turned his stallion back to the trail at a walk. The other two did the same. “But I get the feeling you already knew all that, Thorn,” he said, “as many men as you’ve commanded.”

  The two bounty hunters looked at each other and rode on. Thorn smiled to himself. Looking all around in the failing light, he said, “This is a big, wild, dangerous place we’re in, Sandy.” He took a deep breath and let it out freely. “It’s good to be here.”

  Chapter 5

  By dusk, the ranger and the two bounty hunters had followed broken whiskey bottles and buggy tracks to the empty rig sitting beside the trail. From there they had followed hoofprints upward to a higher trail overlooking the darkened flatlands. In the light of a half-moon, the three built a fire on a flat cliff that cut deep into the hillside.

  Sheltered by towering chimney rock, they ate a meal of jerked elk, hardtack and hot coffee. When they’d finished eating, Sandoval pulled the short sax-style sword from his bedroll and laid it under his saddle alongside his Army Colt. On the other side of the campfire, Thorn laid his long Mameluke sword out alongside his bedroll, picked up his Spencer rifle and his tin cup of coffee and walked away into the darkness without a word.

  “I can stand first watch,” Sam said to Sandoval as Thorn disappeared into the night.

  “Not in his camp,” Sandoval said. “Captain Thorn always stands first watch. It is his way.”

  “Captain Thorn?” Sam said, hoping for an opportunity to find out more about the two.

  “Yes,” said Sandoval, “even though his rank is now honorary, he is still Captain Thorn to me.”

  “How long did you serve under Thorn’s command?” Sam asked.

  “All my life,” Sandoval said quietly. “My full name is Dee Espinaz Guerrero Sandoval. Do you know what that means, Ranger?” he asked with a level gaze.

  “Yes,” Sam replied. “Espina is Spanish for Thorn. So, Espinaz means son of Thorn.”

  “Very good,” Sandoval acknowledged.

  “Guerrero means warrior,” Sam continued.

  “Yes,” said Sandoval, “I am Thorn’s son, the Warrior. Sandoval is my mother’s surname, as is the custom of my people.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “I am his legitimate son.”

  “I understand,” Sam said. “I wasn’t going to pry.”

  “No, I did not think you were,” said Sandoval. “Yet I tell you this because I am proud to be the legitimate son of my father, Captain Cadden Thorn.”

  Sam noted the slightest Spanish accent slip into the man’s voice as he spoke about his heritage.

  “My mother and father met in Havana while he was on his first duty in Cuba as a young lieutenant. Neither of their religions would allow them to legally wed. When I was born the captain had left Cuba and returned to the United States. He did not know he had a son until I was eleven years old. That is when my mother died and the priest of my village wrote to the captain and told him about me.”

  Sam only watched and listened.

  Sandoval continued. “But when the captain took leave and came for me, I had run away. I worked on the cracker cattle boats from Havana to Florida. The captain found me at the cattle chutes in Punta Rassa four years later. When I turned fifteen he signed me on as a marine into the Spartan Regiment. I learned to shoot at the enemies of my country from within the topsails of a moving ship.”

  “I saw some of that fine shooting,” Sam remarked. “And I have never seen any better.”

  “Thank you, Ranger,” Sandoval said modestly. “All marines are crack shots. But in my case it was most important that I be the best.” He gazed off toward the darkness Thorn had walked into. “Captain Thorn had legally given me his name, and the marines had made me a citizen of this country.” He smiled proudly. “I had to be the best of the best, for the sake of my father, and for my beloved United States of America.”

  At the edge of t
he firelight, Thorn cleared his throat and said quietly as he walked back into sight, “I see Mr. Sandoval has told you a little about us, Ranger. I hope it hasn’t been too boring to suit you.” He puffed on a briar pipe. Smoke wafted away on a night breeze.

  “Not at all, Captain Thorn,” Sam said respectfully. “I’m privileged to have heard it.”

  “Oh, it’s Captain now, is it?” Thorn said. “Careful, Ranger. We might have you counting cadence before this pursuit is over.”

  The ranger gave an easy smile. “I have the highest regard for the military, Captain Thorn.”

  “The marines,” said Sandoval as if correcting him.

  “Yes, the marines too,” Sam said. He looked at Sandoval, estimating the young man’s age to around the same as his own. “You left the military.”

  “Yes,” said Sandoval. He gave Thorn a look, then replied to the ranger, “My hitch ran out a year ago. But soon I must make a decision to either go back to duty or forfeit my rank and leave the Marine Corps for good—”

  Sam started to say something, but Thorn cut the conversation short with a raised hand and a gesture toward the sound of something moving on the brushy hillside beneath them. The three stared into the darkness in silence until they all heard the unmistakable sound of a horse chuff as it moved through the creosote brush.

  “Hey, you damn white men,” a voice called out in stiff English, giving away any chance of surprise. “We have you surrounded, you damn white men. Now you must give me all of your whiskey and your horses for crossing my disierto. You must do so mas pronto.”

  “What is this? Who’s out there?” Sandoval asked the ranger in a whisper. He stooped and picked up his short sword from beside his bedroll, letting the studded leather sheath fall from the gleaming steel blade. With his free hand he drew his Colt from its holster. Near the fire sat two unbroken bottles of whiskey they’d salvaged from the brush alongside the trail.

  “They’re called Comadrejas,” the ranger whispered in reply, slipping along in a crouch. Both he and Sandoval left the glow of firelight, Sam’s rifle ready in hand.