“If indeed such crimes have occurred, yes,” the lieutenant agreed. “Tell me . . . what is it that was stolen from you?”
There was an uneasy pause. Moosejaw glanced sideways over at Firestick.
Then, picking up his fabricated narrative again, Firestick said, “The thing is, er, this is sorta embarrassin’. You see, what got took was my friend’s wife. She left him and ran off with some Mexican fella.”
A number of the Rurale soldiers snickered. They seemed to find it amusing that one of their blood could lure away an Americano’s woman. Even the stern expression of the lieutenant faltered a bit.
Then, regaining his composure, he said to Firestick, “I can understand how the ox might have lost his woman. Escaping from under his great bulk might be reason enough for her to flee. But how is it that his size and apparent strength are not sufficient to find and deal with the wife stealer on his own? Why does he need you along?”
“Because,” Firestick explained, “the wife stealer also has somebody else along with him. A fella known to be pretty good with his gun. So I came to even the odds as well as havin’ a personal stake of my own. When they lit out, the lowdown dogs stole my horse for the woman to ride on.”
The lieutenant smiled thinly. “Your tale of woe is very imaginative, I will give you that much. But of course, I do not believe a single word of it!”
“Believe it or don’t. That’s your prerogative,” snarled Firestick. “But if you’re callin’ me a liar, mister, then that’s a different story.”
“Easy,” muttered Moosejaw.
“With twenty guns against your two,” replied the lieutenant, “I shall call it however I like. And your reaction proves that I am right in my assessment of who and what you two really are. Just another pair of hot-tempered pistoleros sneaking into my country, looking to sell your gun skills to the rebel pigs who are willing to pay money in the foolish belief your kind can help their cause!”
“I don’t know a damn thing about what you’re spoutin’,” Firestick told him. “We don’t know no rebels and we don’t have no cause but our own.”
The lieutenant bared his teeth in a wide sneer. “If you are no better with your guns than you are with your pathetic lies, then you would have been little use, anyway, to—”
His words stopped and what came out of his mouth instead was a thick, lumpy gout of blood as the report of a rifle cut the air and the bullet screaming in conjunction with it smashed into the back of the lieutenant’s head. The officer’s chin dropped onto his chest as his entire body went limp and began to sag from the back of his horse. At the same time, dozens more rifles roared in a ragged volley, and the resulting rain of lead ripped and hammered the curved row of Rurale soldiers savagely. Dust puffed from their jackets; spurts of blood and gore issuing from bullet holes turned the air around them into a scarlet mist. Horses screamed and either reared up on their hind legs or bolted in terror. Men dropped like stalks of corn cut down by invisible scythes.
With this carnage erupting before them, Firestick and Moosejaw scrambled as far back into the cavern as they could, bellying down low behind a rubble of broken boulders. Their handguns were in their fists and each had also snatched up his rifle. But amazingly, out of all the blazing gunfire ripping apart the air, not a single shot came near them.
As they continued to watch in stunned awe, the entire Rurale force was bullet riddled until every man in a tan uniform—increasingly streaked and splashed with blood—was crumpled and lifeless. It was over in a handful of minutes, and then there was only silence and slowly curling layers of gunsmoke hanging in the air.
At length, a voice called out from the jagged rocks not too far beyond the sprawl of dead bodies. “Hey, gringos! Are you still alive?”
Firestick tried to pinpoint the spot where the voice came from. Though he was unable to, he went ahead and answered, “Yeah, we’re still alive, thanks to you.”
“Sí. It is good you recognize this. We will come out now and there will be no more shooting. Agreed?”
Firestick and Moosejaw exchanged looks. “Fine by us,” Firestick called back.
“To help make sure of this, if you please, we ask that you leave your weapons on the ground and meet us with your hands held wide at your sides.”
Again Firestick and Moosejaw exchanged looks. One corner of Firestick’s mouth lifted wryly. “Not like we’re really in any position to object, are we?”
“True. But a display of courtesy, whenever possible, is better than a harsh demand. Is it not so?”
“It sure is, amigo. Especially when we just saw how you handle things the harsh way.”
With their guns left behind, Firestick and Moosejaw rose to their feet and walked slowly out of the cavern with their hands held wide at their sides. As they were doing this, a dozen hard-looking men—wiry, somber expressions on dark faces, clad in rope sandals, baggy pants, loose-fitting shirts hung heavily with cartridge belts or bandoleers—appeared out of the rocks and crevices just past where the dead Rurales lay. A few of them wore holstered pistols on their hips, most had machetes slipped through their belts, all were holding rifles at the ready. The guns on display—pistols and rifles alike—were predominately older models looking a bit worse for wear, but their effectiveness had just been proven pretty convincingly.
In the midst of this pack was a short, bandy-legged specimen with narrow shoulders, a bit of a paunch, an oversized nose somewhat offset by the long scar on his left cheek, and a prominent gold tooth displayed via an overbite thrusting out from under a stringy mustache. He was one of the pistol wearers—two of them, in fact, worn for the cross-draw on each hip. Neither were outdated models but rather a matched pair of very current Colt .45s with ivory grips.
“I,” he announced, “am Ernesto Estarde—a colonel in the revolutionary army fighting to overthrow the corrupt government of our country, especially these vermin-ridden Rurale pigs of the northern reaches who answer to no god or no rule except the domination and butchery of innocents.” He then spread his hands, indicating the men to either side of him. “And these are my brave comrades, fighting at my side for the same cause.”
Firestick nodded. “My name’s McQueen, and this”—he motioned to Moosejaw—“is Hendricks. The two of us are very much in debt to you and your men. I don’t know what that Rurale lieutenant had in mind for us, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t anything good.”
“He was convinced, as he said, that you are pistoleros come to join our revolution. Guns for hire. Mercenaries.” Estarde eyed the two former mountain men. “Much as I hate to agree with any conclusion of that scum Lieutenant Ricardo, I must say that I, too, see the same when I look at you. Certainly something other than two men chasing a stolen wife and horse.”
Once again, Firestick instinctively knew that leveling with these men, even though they’d saved the lives of him and Moosejaw, was not advisable. “If that’s a question,” he said measuredly, “then the short answer is no, we’re not down here for the purpose I told the lieutenant.”
Estarde merely regarded him. Waiting.
“As for the other,” Firestick went on, “yeah, my friend and I have done gun work in the past and are open to doin’ more of the same. When we heard there was need for such down this way and the pay was good . . . Well, here we are.”
Now Estarde smiled. “This is good to hear. And while you feel indebted to me and my men, we also owe a certain debt to you. Though I have some concern about you being careless enough to allow the Rurales to corner you the way they did, it nevertheless resulted in them focusing so intently on you that it left them exposed for us to work close and strike unexpectedly, something we have been trying to do for days.
“So we have benefited each other. And all things considered, I feel we can do more of the same and each continue to get something useful from the other. Therefore, with night coming on, let us make camp here together and discuss further plans.”
Then, gesturing animatedly, snapping his fingers and bar
king orders in rapid-fire Spanish, Estarde set the men about him scrambling into action. Several of them pounced on the Rurale bodies—stripping them of guns, ammunition, boots, money, anything of use or value—then dragging the carcasses out of sight off to some nearby gully. Others scattered to try and reclaim some of the horses that bolted away. The remaining handful disappeared back into the rocks out of which they’d only recently emerged and then appeared again leading their own horses. From these they produced supplies with which they began preparing a meal after they got a campfire going.
While this was going on, Estarde waved his arm at Firestick and Moosejaw, saying, “Go. Retrieve your weapons. Mingle freely. We are allies now and must learn to trust one another. Is it not so?”
CHAPTER 45
“Comin’ in,” announced Black Hills Buckner as he paused momentarily before entering the clearing Torrence had chosen for their camp. It was that gray, murky time between the last streaks of daylight and the descent of full night. Individual shadows cast from the higher rocks on all sides were merging into thickening, expanding pools of black.
Black Hills strode over to a low-burning campfire that had been built in a shallow natural depression and then surrounded by jagged chunks of stone. Pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot that sat bubbling on the edge of the coals, the big man said, “I was able to catch glimpses of this fire from a couple different spots down the way. It ain’t shielded near as good as you think.”
Close on the other side of the fire, seated on the ground and leaning back against his saddle, Torrence replied, “More to the point, did you see any sign of anyone in pursuit of us?”
“Nary a one. Not even with these fancy goggles of yours,” Black Hills reported as he held out Torrence’s binoculars, returning them to him. “If a posse rode out after us, they must still be hangin’ back quite a ways.”
“Well, that’s good, ain’t it?” said Romo Perlison from where he also sat close to the fire.
“Indeed it is,” confirmed Torrence.
“Almost seems too good, if you ask me,” spoke up Leticia. She was seated between Torrence and Romo with a blanket draped over her shoulders.
“Why do you say that?” the gang leader asked.
Leticia shrugged. “Just seems like it is, that’s all. We’ve taken hostages before and I don’t recall it ever holding the posses at bay quite as thoroughly as it seems to be working this time. That’s great if it’s all on the up and up. But something about it just feels . . . well, fishy. At least it does to me.”
“You suggestin’ Black Hills missed something the times he checked our back trail?” Romo said, his eyes gleaming a little, as if he relished the idea of stirring up some hard feelings.
“Shut up, Romo,” Black Hills growled.
“You know damn well I’m not saying anything against Black Hills. It’s nothing like that at all.” Leticia frowned. “Like I said, it’s just a feeling I got. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Under different circumstances,” said Torrence, “I might well share that skepticism, my dear. But the circumstances in this case, I’ll remind you, are uniquely in our favor. First of all, as we’ve learned from our new friend Shaw here, those two idiots who came on ahead of us from Jepperd’s Ford actually took our ridiculous advice and kidnapped two women from the town—apparently to make their brides. That pulled away two of the town’s lawmen to chase them down, leaving only a single deputy on hand when we made our strike this morning.
“Combine that with the man we chose for our hostage, and I think it all falls into place. Any posse formed to pursue us—with only a marginally qualified lawman to lead it—would have to be very cautious considering Shaw’s importance and the potential for repercussions that could be international in scope if they acted too hastily and contributed to harm befalling him.”
Sitting on the opposite side of Torrence, Rupert Shaw smiled disdainfully. “I think you may be giving too much credit to the capability of those back in Buffalo Peak to comprehend or care about international ramifications. But I assure you that my man Hadley—who thankfully remains behind and can be quite forceful at making himself heard—will guarantee they understand the legal and financial nightmare my family can cause to be visited on them if they act imprudently.”
Black Hills twisted his mouth in a show of disdain not too dissimilar to the one Shaw had displayed when referring to the townsfolk. “He uses even bigger, fancier words than you do, Torrence, and I don’t understand half of whatever the hell he’s sayin’. I sure hope you do. And I hope this change of mind you got on how we’re gonna get more use out of him ends up bein’ worth it.”
“Worth it?” echoed Torrence. His face showed a flush of irritation at having his leadership decision questioned. “We just took that Buffalo Peak bank for a little over forty thousand dollars. That splits out to ten grand-plus apiece. Not a bad morning’s work, I would say.
“But if Shaw’s family over in England is willing to pay an additional forty grand in ransom for his safe release, like he claims—how can that not be worth it? We’ve already got him in our custody, we’re already clear of the bank holdup, so we stand to double our money with barely a sliver more of risk. I repeat: How can that not be worth it?”
“I swear to you my family’s wealth can cover that amount. Nor will they hesitate to pay it for my safety,” Shaw added with a sense of urgency. His hands were still tied in front of him but he’d been allowed to wash up earlier and to answer the call of nature with a measure of privacy before being allowed to eat and drink in the company of the others as they took their evening meal around the campfire. There was no mistaking the fact he was still very much a prisoner, but the deal he was trying to negotiate for himself and the fact Torrence was leaning in favor of it had at least gained him some improved treatment.
“All you have to do,” he continued, “is get me to a town big enough to have a telegraph office that can connect to the transatlantic cable system and a bank big enough to cover the amount of money my family will wire, and it will be a victory for all of us. I get to keep my life and regain my freedom; you get to double your money with only a small amount of additional effort.”
Leticia spoke again. “No matter what anybody says, that small amount of effort does come with some added risk. Whether a posse is hard on our trail or not, word is bound to spread about the Buffalo Peak holdup. And if Lord Almighty Shaw here is half the big shot he claims to be, that will only add to it. So if and when we go sashaying into a town somewhere down the line to do all this telegraphing and money wiring, won’t there be a chance they likely got descriptions ahead of time and will be on the lookout for us?”
“I thought about that, too,” Torrence said, tipping his head in a faint nod. “But that only applies if we’re stupid enough not to make some adjustments to counter it. Like disguises. Going in at staggered intervals, not showing up in a town all at once . . . It could be worked out. And, for another forty grand, I’d say it sure as hell ought to be worth some amount of additional risk.”
Nobody said anything for several minutes.
Until Torrence tapped the last of the coffee grounds out of his empty cup and announced, “But before we get the cart too far ahead of the horse, as the old saying goes, we need to take care of first things first. That means getting through this cold-ass night for starters. Then, tomorrow, we start picking our way down out of these mountains and head for somewhere we can hole up and make double sure there’s nobody close on our heels. Once we’re certain of that, we’ll go back to deciding on this ransom business and, if we go through it, where we’ll be able to find a reasonable spot for the telegrams and wire transfers and the rest.”
* * *
In the lower reaches of the Viejas, Beartooth and his posse were hunkered down in a small canyon whose floor provided some sparse graze for the horses.
“Well, you were right about one thing,” Russ Overstreet said around a mouthful of biscuit. “The afternoon got hotter as we
went along and now the night and this cold camp is plungin’ us right back in the other direction.”
“That’s the way of it,” Beartooth allowed. “But if you want to talk about cold, the chill we’re gonna get here up in these piddly little hills, that don’t even rightly deserve to be called mountains, ain’t nothing. Why, I’ve seen times in the Rockies when me and Firestick and Moosejaw went weeks at a time where it stayed so cold you could spit and have it freeze before it hit the ground.”
Overstreet rolled his eyes. “Watch out, fellas. We’re about to hear some of those stories from mountain man days. I bet it was so cold you had to thaw out the fire each morning so’s you could cook your coffee, right?”
Before Beartooth could respond, young Gabe Hooper groaned and said, “Oh, man, don’t mention coffee, not even kiddin’ around. That’s pure torture. I’m already cravin’ me a cup so bad it’s got me achin’ all over.”
“Sorry to say you’re gonna have to tough it out,” Beartooth told him. “I think we closed the gap on those robbers more than we figured and more than they expect. Miguel scouted ahead and saw a glimmer of their campfire not too far up. So we ain’t gonna oblige ’em with a fire of our own to let ’em know how close we are, not for coffee or no other reason.”
“Sure. Sure, I understand that,” Gabe said earnestly. “But you really think we’re closin’ in on ’em, eh?”
“I don’t think, I know,” said Miguel. “They are up there, and not that far ahead.”
“In that case,” spoke up Thomas Rivers, his dark face all but lost in the thickening shadows reaching in from the canyon walls, “what’s to stop us from movin’ up on ’em now? We could work in closer still, surround ’em, and hit ’em at first light.”
“I like the sound of that,” agreed Hadley. “It’s a clear night. Once the moon comes out and our eyes adjust we should be able to make our way well enough.”
Blood and Bullets Page 26