by Ray Hogan
Rait cradled his weapon, hurried toward the teamster. He could hear the rattling of the vehicles, the sound broken regularly by shouts from Denver as he urged his team up the slope.
Blocked by the fortifications, he pulled to a stop just below the rim, leaped to the ground, and with Felipe a step behind him, legged it for the top.
“What was all that shooting?” he yelled as he came onto the level. “Figured you boys was sure having it hot and heavy.”
Adam pointed to the ridge. “Cook and Bernal, fighting it out to see who gets us.”
“Who come out on top?”
“Don’t know. Expect it was Bernal. From the dust he’s got a fair-size army.”
Denver glanced appealingly at Sancho, expressing his need for food, then said: “Who’s this Bernal?”
Adam frowned, looked closely at the teamster, and then remembered that Joe had missed out on everything that had happened since their parting at the river. He explained in detail while Denver and Felipe satisfied their hunger. When Rait had finished, the driver shook his head, glanced at the dozen or so men who had gathered around.
“We sure’ve been played for suckers, ain’t no doubt of that.”
“We ain’t giving in yet!” Zeke Kelly declared. “Not by a damn sight!”
“And we won’t,” Bill Gannon added. “Can’t make nobody see it, but I claim the general’s just looking out for us.”
Denver stared at the man unbelievingly for a moment, and then glanced around. “Got yourself pretty well forted up here. Be hard for anybody to overrun you, leastwise first couple of times.”
“We can hold for a while,” Rait said. “I’m hoping that escort from Tupelo heard the shooting and is on its way.”
Joe Denver wheeled slowly. “One thing I was aiming to tell you … there ain’t no escort coming … we found Escobar dead first day out.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rait felt the last measure of hope drain from his body. He had been careful to make no issue of the escort’s coming in front of the teamsters, knowing in his own mind there was a strong possibility that it would not; now it was a definite fact. The final mental bulwark with which he restrained despair was gone.
He smiled grimly at Waterhouse. “That slim chance I mentioned … you can forget it.”
Rube cursed vividly, helplessly. “Well, boys, I reckon that’s it.”
Denver said: “Any use going for help?”
Adam shook his head. “Too late. It was too late yesterday. As far as I know, the nearest town’s Tupelo … and that’s days away.”
“Looks like all we can do is fight.”
Like a sudden towering wave, the past washed through Adam Rait. It was the war all over again—the same heartbreaking problem that had warped his soul and turned him, blood-sick, from the struggle: too few men; overwhelming odds, crisis … Stand and die! Revulsion ripped through him. Without conscious thought, he spoke.
“We can quit!”
In the breathless hush that followed, the men stared at him.
“I won’t ask you to do this. I want you to understand that. I swore a time ago I’d never again tell a man he had to die. Pick yourself a horse and ride. Head west. Nobody’ll stop you.”
One-Eye Johnson pulled off his hat angrily. “You meaning … just run, leave everything?”
“Is it worth throwing your life away for? That’s the price you’ll pay if you don’t.”
Johnson tugged at his stringy mustache. “Could be … howsomever, I ain’t thinking much on that. It’s just the giving up, letting them take what ain’t theirs.”
“He’s right,” Kiowa Jack said, bobbing his head. “Reckon I’d rather fight.”
Adam wiped at the sweat on his face. He thought back to the times in the swamps of Tennessee, to the hills of Virginia, of Pennsylvania—and a half a hundred other skirmishes in long-forgotten places. Except for the lack of uniforms, this could be one of those instances unfolding before him again.
“We ain’t about to go hightailing it, Cap’n,” Ed Vernon said quietly. “Not even if that Bernal’s got hisself two hundred soldiers over there.”
Adam Rait heard, and began to realize that those men who had stood by him in the tumultuous, smoky days of the war, who had faced crushing odds, just as these, had felt the same way.
They, too, had declined to run. And while, as their commanding officer, he could have made no such offer as that which he presented to the teamsters, he knew now they, too, would have refused. Life was precious, but to brave men defending what they believed to be right, it was not the ultimate to be preserved above all else.
He became aware of a curious lifting of spirit, and somewhere in the back recesses of his mind a dark shadow dissolved. It was strange that it had taken so long to find the answer, stranger yet to meet it on a sandy ledge in Texas, far from the battlefields where it all began—and in the face of certain death.
A pride swelled through him and his shoulders came up a notch. “All right. That’s the way it’ll be. We’ll give them holy hell long as we last.”
There was no cheering this time, only a quiet assent.
“I know you’re all set,” Rait continued. “But you might keep an extra rifle handy in case the one you’re using blows up. Be sure you’ve got plenty of cartridges. Men not on sentry duty ought to get some sleep.”
The men nodded and moved off. Adam, with Denver, dropped back to the end of the ledge. Together they cleared the way and brought in the horses and wagons the teamster and Felipe had abandoned outside camp.
When that was done, Denver said: “About time you was taking some of your own advice and getting some shut-eye. You look like a walking dead man. I’ll have the boy fix you a bed in the wagon.”
Rait heaved a sigh, suddenly conscious of weariness. “I’ll do that … soon as I look things over.”
“I’ll do the looking over,” the teamster said firmly. “You’re hitting the hay.”
Adam grinned, stood by while Felipe spread blankets in the supply wagon, and then crawled aboard.
“Couple of hours,” he murmured. “That’s all I’ll need.”
“Sure … couple of hours,” Joe Denver answered.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next thing Rait knew someone was shaking him by the shoulder. He sat bolt upright, alarm racing through him. It was first light, and Denver, a dim figure at the end of the wagon, was staring at him.
“Better have a look,” the teamster boss said. “We got Mexicans all over that slope.”
Adam flung aside the blankets, cursing himself for having slept so long, and leaped to the ground. He cast a hasty glance around the ledge. The men were in their places. Sancho and Felipe had coffee boiling over the fire and were preparing the morning meal.
At a trot, he crossed to the edge of the flat, made his way between two of the freighters, and halted. Ed Vernon, hunched in his pit, looked up.
“Must be a hundred of them, Cap’n, at least.”
Rait scanned the distant hillside below the ridge. Bernal had won the fight with Cook, as he had expected, and now had moved his forces into view. It was too dark for an accurate estimate but he guessed Vernon’s count was low.
Slowly the hills lightened as the sun crept nearer to the horizon in the east. Dim shapes began to take definite form: the soldiers wore blue uniforms. These were Maximilian’s best—expertly trained and well armed. He stirred impatiently. How long did he think he could hold them off with a dozen and a half riflemen?
Felipe sounded the call to breakfast. The teamsters collected immediately, sensing the need to hurry, bolted their meal. The two men on the summit of the bluff were relieved and sentries along the edge of the flat came in.
Darby Sims, swallowing the last of his coffee, moved up to where Bill Gannon stood. “Expect you’re changing your mind now about tha
t son-of-a-bitching Mex!”
“No, I ain’t! Still figure he’s for us. Aim to ride over there in a minute and prove it.”
Rait looked up sharply. “Don’t be a fool, Bill.”
The teamster snorted. “I’ll show you who’s the fool!” he shouted, and, throwing his plate to the ground, he strode to the horses. Choosing one, he drew on a bridle and, ignoring the use of a saddle, vaulted into position.
“Be right back. You’ll see!”
Denver, standing beside Rait, clucked softly as he watched the teamster diminish into the distance. “Got me a hunch old Bill’s done his last talking.”
The men stood in silence, eyes on the slope. Gannon reached the welter of blue uniforms and, unchallenged, walked his mount toward the center. Abruptly he was lost to sight.
Rait glanced around, habit compelling him to make a final inspection. Hernando Bernal would not delay much longer. His men, too, would have had their rations, soon would be forming ranks. The classic cavalry charge, he guessed, would be the officer’s plan. Send several waves of men pounding up the slope and overrun the opposition by sheer force of numbers.
A gunshot racketed hollowly across the stillness. Adam wheeled. Bill Gannon, crouched low on his horse, was rushing downgrade. There was a confused milling about among the soldiers, and then a small space along the edge cleared. A half dozen men formed a line. Rifles echoed.
Gannon raised himself slightly and sagged to one side. The guns blasted again. Horse and rider disappeared into a turmoil of dust as both went down.
“They got him,” Red Lester muttered. “The dirty, stinking—”
“Was a fool thing he done,” Malachi Lee cut in. “He know’d better … just couldn’t stand being showed up wrong.”
“Proves you knew what you was talking about, Cap’n,” Vernon said. “Can’t be no doubt now.”
Adam felt no elation, no sense of triumph. Bill Gannon had simply believed himself right; it had cost him his life to learn the opposite was true and that Hernando Bernal was a man not to be trusted.
“Cap’n.”
It was Ed Vernon again. The teamster was pointing down the slope. The Mexican officer was sending a party to negotiate. Hanging his rifle in the crook of his arm, Rait stepped over the rim of weeds and rock, took up a stand a few paces below. The four men advancing immediately halted.
“Do you speak Spanish?” the officer in the lead called.
“I know the tongue,” Adam replied.
“General Bernal sends this message. He will spare the lives of you and your men. It is only necessary that you remove yourself from your position and walk to us. Horses will later be provided for your convenience.”
Rait thought of Bill Gannon. “Your general is not to be trusted. He would have bullets put into our backs as he did the man who went to speak with him.”
“An assassin,” the officer replied. “He became angered, endeavored to murder General Bernal … who did sustain a slight wound. Such treachery was necessarily rewarded with death.”
It was not difficult now to understand what had happened. Bernal had told Bill Gannon the truth, and the teamster, in a fit of rage, had shot the officer.
“What is your answer?”
“Tell your general he can go to hell,” Rait said, forgetting his Spanish. “And he can look for—”
“I do not understand.”
“The offer is refused.”
“An unwise decision. You have no more than two dozen men. Perhaps less. Against them, we will mount four times that number.”
“Hey, who’s that coming?”
Adam turned, followed the teamster’s gaze. A number of riders, strung out in a short line, were galloping across the swale for the south end of the butte. They were following the tracks made earlier by Denver and Felipe. There were nine horses in the party and all except the one in the lead were carrying double.
“Juáristas!” Joe Denver shouted. “Sure as the devil!”
“That the escort we’re waiting for?” Waterhouse asked.
Rait moved back to the ledge. “Couldn’t be. Nobody knows we’re here.”
“Well, they sure do!”
The oncoming riders became more distinct. They wore large sombreros, and now and then the growing light glinted off rifles carried by some of the men. The men riding double appeared to be unarmed. And the one in the lead … there was something familiar …
“It’s that gal!” Kiowa Jack Green said, using his hand as a visor. “The one that was with the Mex general. By doggies, she’s a bringing us some help!”
Adam could scarcely believe his eyes, and unconsciously his guard came up as suspicion claimed him. But he wasted no time in thought. Throwing a glance at Bernal’s negotiating party, now loping back to the slope to make their report, he swung his attention to the teamsters.
“Hold your positions until I see what this is all about,” he said, and hurried into the center of the ledge. He beckoned to Denver. “Joe. Give me a hand here,” he said, and rushed on to the lower end of the plain to make an entrance for the riders.
With the additional help of Sancho and the wrangler, they hustled the supply rig to one side. Moments later Angela de Acera, followed by the others, poured through the gap and came to a halt.
Adam stepped to the girl’s winded horse, helped her dismount. She smiled, made a gesture toward the men coming off their mounts.
“Sixteen men … all I could find.”
Still mystified, Rait looked at the Mexicans, spun to Joe Denver. “Get them armed … those that need guns. Find them places along the rim.”
The teamster beckoned to the men, trotted off. Frowning, Rait followed them with his eyes.
“All loyal Juáristas,” Angela said, reading his mind. “It’s no trick.”
He turned to her. Her face was smudged with dust, and a fine film covered her clothing. She had evidently ridden long and hard.
“Juáristas,” he echoed. “What are you doing with the Juáristas?”
Angela smiled again. “I’ve never been anything else,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Adam Rait, vaguely angered, said nothing.
“I tried to make you understand without actually telling you,” Angela said. “But I was afraid someone might hear and it would get back to Bernal.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re a Juárez agent, but you let the Maximilian bunch think you were with them. And all that about Mexico City … and other things.”
“It’s true, most of it. I’ll admit some of it was just conversation … just so I could be with you. My father is a grandee, except he’s one of the few who believes in Benito Juárez. Secretly, of course. It was easy for us to listen and watch, keep Juárez posted.”
“That doesn’t explain why you were after Hanover and the shipment of arms.”
“That came about accidentally. When word was received at the palace that Hanover was arriving with a cargo of guns, Maximilian’s advisers decided Bernal would be sent to get them … one way or another. Somebody got the idea that Hanover might be easier to deal with if a woman was brought in on the scheme. He was, they said, quite a ladies’ man.”
“So they picked you.”
She studied him closely, intrigued by the sharp quality of his tone. Amusement flickered in her eyes. “I was never in any danger from him.”
Rait looked toward the slope. The mass of blue-clad cavalrymen had not moved.
“Anyway, being chosen was just what I hoped for,” she continued. “Maximilian’s generals have had a troop of soldiers hiding out along the border, near here, for a long time. They’ve caused Juárez a lot of trouble—raiding villages, destroying supply trains, capturing messengers, and the like.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Adam said. “Nobody could ever figure out where they holed up.” He hesitated, frow
ned. “That’s probably the same bunch Bernal’s got with him now.”
“It is. We were sure he’d visit them, or drop a word that would tell me where they were, so I agreed to accompany him. All I was interested in was finding out the location of the secret rendezvous … and then getting word to Juárez so it could be destroyed.”
“Did you?”
Angela nodded. “Last night. As soon as I was sure, I slipped off, rode to a village south of here, looking for help. I was lucky a Juárista patrol was there. I sent one man on to Tupelo with a map for the comandante, and talked the rest—eight men—into coming with me to help you. They recruited eight of the villagers. Now that you have sixteen more to fight, do you think …?”
Rait’s features softened. He reached for her, drew her close. “You’ve been taking a hell of a lot of chances … and you shouldn’t have come here. Not much hope for us …”
“I wanted to come. I had to be with you.”
“Adam!”
Joe Denver’s summons brought him around quickly. The blue mass on the distant slope had begun to flow downward. Taking Angela by the shoulders, he kissed her firmly, turned her about, and pushed her toward Sancho and the safety at the foot of the bluff. “Stay over there. If we come through this alive, we’ve got some plans to make,” he said, and hurried away.
Rifle in hand, he halted at center front of the ledge, ran his gaze along the line of crouched men fanning out to either side. Several of the newcomers grinned back, teeth showing whitely in their dark faces. The odds now were considerably better—but still not good.
He threw his attention to the slope. Bernal, carrying a saber, had reached the bottom and had halted in the wash. His men were spreading out to form lines. Methodically, Adam made a count: five rows of horsemen, twenty in each except for the last, which contained twenty-four.
Hernando’s plan was apparent. The first row would be the shock troops, designed to draw the teamsters’ initial fire. They would be followed closely by the second wave—whose jobs it would be to race in on the heels of the leading cavalrymen, get their licks in before reloading on the part of the teamsters could be completed. The third, fourth, and fifth lines would serve mostly in the capacity of mopping up.