Their gringo companion was a different story, though. Dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt and trousers, he was young, maybe not even out of his teens. He had tried to grow a beard, but all he had managed to raise was a little peach fuzz, which was so light in color it was almost invisible. He had a friendly, open face and a shock of fair, curly hair under a pushed-back hat.
“Howdy,” he called to Bo as he raised a hand in greeting when twenty feet separated them. “Mighty warm this afternoon, ain’t it?”
“That it is,” Bo said as he reined in. He wanted to look back and make sure Rose was bringing the wagon to a halt, but he figured it might not be wise to take his eyes off this mismatched trio. Anyway, he had complete confidence that Scratch would see to it.
The three men—or two men and a boy, you might as well say—came to a stop, as well. The blond youngster leaned a little to the right in his saddle, as if he was trying to look around Bo.
“What you got back there in the wagon, mister?” he asked.
“Just some friends of mine.”
“The one on the seat, handlin’ the team, looks like a gal,” the youngster said. He grinned. “A sort of pretty gal, at that.”
Bo didn’t respond to the comment. Instead, he asked, “Where are you fellas headed?”
“Us? Why, we’re headed to El Paso, I reckon. We’re goin’ the right direction, ain’t we?”
“El Paso’s back behind us a ways, all right,” Bo said with a nod.
“Turnabout’s fair play, or so they say. Where might you folks be goin’?”
“We’re bound for Silverhill.”
The blond boy laughed and said, “We just came from there, and you couldn’t pay us to go back. Ain’t that right, boys?”
The two Mexicans didn’t say anything, just sat easily in their saddles and watched Bo with an intentness that made him think of a couple of hawks waiting for a mouse to venture out too far into the open.
“What’s wrong with Silverhill? The mines playing out?”
That might actually be information worth knowing. If Silverhill was bound to become a ghost town in the next few months, the ladies might not want to stay there, after all.
The youngster laughed again and shook his head, though. “No, sir, as far as I could tell, those mines are still producin’ a heap of silver. But all the good claims are taken already, and the only way poor but honest lads like me and Ernesto and Juan can make any dinero is to go down in those tunnels with a pick and shovel and dig for it to make some other fella rich. That didn’t suit us.”
“Don’t care for hard work, eh?”
With an even bigger grin, the boy said, “Me and hard work ain’t never been on what you’d call friendly terms!”
All three of the strangers, even the young one, wore guns that looked like they had been well used. Bo was waiting for them to slap leather and try to rob him and his companions. He was ready if they made such a move.
Going by instinct, he had already picked out the smaller Mexican as the fastest of the three, so he decided it would be best to kill him first. One of the others would probably get some lead in him, but he was confident he could put a second man on the ground before he went down himself.
And then Scratch would blow the remaining bandit out of the saddle with his Winchester. The young ladies would be safe.
Instead of things playing out that way, the big Mexican said in perfect English, “Let them be, Howie. We’ve got no business with these folks, and I want to get on to El Paso.”
The youngster looked confused. He said, “Well, hell, Ernesto, I was just passin’ the time of day with this fella.”
“It’s too hot for that,” Ernesto growled. “Come on.”
“Whatever you say, amigo.” The boy Howie ticked a finger against the brim of his hat and told Bo, “Good luck to you and your pards in Silverhill, mister.”
The three of them pulled their horses to the side and rode around Bo. He moved his hand to the rifle, just in case they charged the wagon, although that seemed unlikely now that he was behind them.
The three riders swung to the south, giving the wagon a wide berth as they rode past it. Howie waved to the ladies and called out something, but Bo couldn’t make out the words. Then the youngster put the spurs to his horse and dashed ahead. He was showing off for the pretty girls, Bo realized. He hoped Howie wouldn’t run the horse too hard or too long in this heat. That wouldn’t be good for the animal.
The men and the boy moved on into the distance. Bo kept an eye on them as he rode toward the wagon. The three of them didn’t turn back. Their figures dwindled as they put more ground between themselves and the wagon.
“What in blazes was that all about?” Scratch asked as Bo came up to the vehicle.
“I’m not sure,” Bo said. “When I first started talking to them, I thought for sure they were road agents.”
Rose said, “You mean robbers?”
“That’s right. The two Mexicans definitely had the owlhoot look about them. Not the kid, though. He didn’t fit with them at all.”
“He waved at us,” Rose said. “He called out and said for us to enjoy our trip. He seemed rather nice.”
“Maybe,” Scratch said, “but you can tell a lot about a fella by the company he keeps.”
From behind the seat, Cecilia said, “You’re not being fair. Just because those men were Mexicans, that doesn’t mean they were criminals.”
“That’s right,” Bo said. “We’ve known plenty of honest, hardworking Mexicans who are some of the finest people on the face of the earth. But we’ve run into plenty of bandits in our time, too, and those two boys have done some riding on the wrong side of the law, or my name’s not Bo Creel.”
Scratch rubbed his jaw and said, “Bo, you recollect what I told you back in El Paso about Jaime Mendoza?”
“Who’s Jaime Mendoza?” Rose asked.
Bo didn’t answer her question. Instead, he said to Scratch, “I remember, all right. Mendoza’s supposed to be a pretty smart fella. That’s the reason he’s been able to dodge the Rurales for so long. You think maybe he spotted the wagon and sent those three to find out what’s in it?”
“Like scouts, you mean?” Scratch nodded. “That’s what I’m worried about, all right.”
Cecilia asked the same question Rose had. “Who is Jaime Mendoza?”
“A bandit,” Bo said. “He and his men used to operate on this side of the line in New Mexico and Arizona, but lately, they’ve been down south of the border. Rumor has it they’re starting to venture in this direction again, though.”
“Best get the wagon movin’ again, Miss Rose,” Scratch said. “Don’t run the horses, but keep up a good pace.”
Rose frowned under the wide-brimmed hat she wore. “You and Bo are kind of scaring me, Scratch,” she said.
“No need to get scared,” Bo said. “We’re just being careful. Those fellas told me they were coming from Silverhill, that they left because they decided they didn’t want to be miners and that’s the only work they could get there. Maybe they were telling the truth.”
He didn’t really believe that, but it was possible, he supposed.
Rose slapped the reins against the backs of the horses. They leaned forward into their harness, and the wagon lurched into motion. Rose called out to the team and snapped the reins again. The horses began to move faster.
Bo and Scratch dropped behind the wagon for a moment.
Scratch said quietly, “If they come at us, there ain’t no tellin’ which direction they’ll come from. They could’a circled around and could be anywhere by now.”
“I know,” Bo said. “Why don’t you take the point, and I’ll ride drag? We’ll need to watch both sides, too.”
“Too bad those Jensen boys ol’ Cyrus mentioned didn’t come along on this trip, too. We could use some flankers right about now.”
Bo nodded, knowing his old friend was right. But they didn’t have any help. Keeping those young women safe was up to him and S
cratch, nobody else.
Scratch rode past the wagon, calling, “Keep ’em movin’!” to Rose as he did so. Bo trailed about twenty feet behind the vehicle. He had his head on a swivel, constantly moving to check all points of the compass.
One good thing about hot, dry country like this: a group of riders couldn’t move across it at any great rate of speed without raising some telltale dust. If Jaime Mendoza’s gang was after them, they’d know about it before the bandits got there.
Something ahead of them caught Bo’s eye. It was a gray butte with a deeply seamed face, a short distance south of the trail. Such formations dotted the landscape, jutting up abruptly. A few others were faintly visible farther to the south.
Bo’s attention lingered on the butte only for a second; then he turned his head to check the area north of the trail. Not seeing anything that alarmed him, he hipped around in the saddle to look behind them.
A brown haze that hadn’t been there the last time he’d checked, less than thirty seconds earlier, hung in the air. As Bo stiffened and watched, the haze thickened and coalesced into a cloud of dust.
Had to be a dozen riders to kick up that much dust. Probably more. He didn’t wait any longer. He heeled his horse ahead sharply and drew even with the wagon. Pale, nervous faces looked out at him from the opening in the back as he rode past.
He waved at Rose as he came up beside the driver’s box and called to her, “Head for that butte!”
CHAPTER 17
Rose looked scared, but she slapped the reins against the horses’ backs and called out to them. The horses lunged ahead harder, and the wagon picked up speed.
Bo tried to look in all directions at once. The bandits could be trying to lure them into a trap by seeming to pursue from behind. Fleeing toward the butte could be exactly what Jaime Mendoza wanted them to do.
However, they didn’t have much choice. Letting the bandits catch them out in the open would be a disaster, probably a fatal one. At least this way they had a chance of finding a good place to hole up and make a stand.
The same thoughts must have crossed Scratch’s mind. As Bo pulled up even with him, he called, “Mendoza could have men waitin’ for us over there!”
“I’m going to check it out! Fall back with the wagon, in case the ladies need help!”
Scratch nodded and hauled his horse around. Bo galloped on toward the rough, massive chunk of sandstone that jutted up from the landscape a few hundred yards away.
As he drew closer, he spotted what he had been hoping to see. In times past, erosion had loosened chunks and slabs of sandstone on the butte’s walls, and they had plummeted to the ground to litter the area around the formation’s base.
If no bandits—human snakes—were lurking in those rocks, that would be a good place for Bo, Scratch, and the young women to seek shelter.
His eyes searched among the boulders as he approached. He didn’t see anyone hiding there. He drew his Colt and rode into a large cluster of boulders, halfway expecting someone to open fire on him at any second.
Nothing of the sort happened. As far as Bo could tell, the area around the butte was deserted. Mendoza might well have set a trap there if he’d had time, once he found out who was traveling in the wagon, but the butte had been too close. The bandits’ intended prey had reached it first.
Bo holstered his gun, rode back out into the open, and waved his hat over his head. Scratch would see that signal and hustle the wagon on toward the butte.
Bo dismounted, led his horse to what he hoped would be a safe spot deep in the rocks, and weighted down the reins with a chunk of sandstone the size of a man’s head. He pulled the Winchester from its sheath and hurried back to a rock slab with a slanting top that commanded a view of the wagon’s approach. Bo stretched out on the rock and snugged the rifle butt against his shoulder.
The bandits, riding like devils out of hell, had closed the gap between themselves and the wagon. They were only a couple of hundred yards behind it now.
But the wagon was within a hundred yards of the butte, and Bo didn’t think the bandits could catch it before it reached safety.
Especially not if he slowed the varmints down some.
Bo raised the Winchester’s barrel a little as he estimated distance and elevation. When he thought he had his figuring about right, he opened fire. Half a dozen shots blasted out in a steady roll of gun thunder, with Bo cranking the Winchester’s lever between each round.
He could see the line of men on horseback at the bottom of the dust cloud now. Suddenly, that line bunched up in the middle, breaking up the gang’s steady advance. Bo thought it likely at least one horse had gone down. That was what he was hoping for when he started shooting. He wanted to break the back of the attack, or at least blunt it.
He could hear the wagon rattling now, along with the pounding hoofbeats from the team. The ground was fairly level, but it had enough bumps to make the wagon bounce a little now and then. Bo hoped the ladies were hanging on in there and weren’t getting jolted around too badly.
Better a few jolts, though, than falling into the hands of ruthless bandits.
The pursuers had slowed down, but not all of them had stopped. Bo levered the Winchester and sprayed more lead in their direction.
The wagon had almost reached the rocks. Rose leaned far back on the seat as she hauled on the reins to slow the horses.
There wasn’t room behind the rocks for the wagon itself, so following Scratch’s shouted directions, Rose turned the vehicle and brought it to a skidding, dust-spraying stop next to one of the boulders. As she leaped to the ground from the driver’s box, the other four young women scrambled out the back, over the tailgate, and ran for cover.
Bo grimaced as he heard bullets ricocheting off the rocks. Some of the bandits had opened fire, too, although shooting from horseback that way, they weren’t likely to hit anything unless it was by blind luck.
Unfortunately, blind luck could be just as deadly as the best aim in the world.
Bo slid down from the slab and ran to take Scratch’s horse from him. While Bo led the mount closer to the butte, Scratch started unhitching the team.
“Beth!” Bo called, not worrying right now about being properly respectful and calling her Miss Beth. When she hurried over to him, he handed her the rifle and told her, “There are still five rounds in here. Get behind one of those rocks, brace the rifle on it, and fire toward those men out there while I help Scratch with the horses.”
“But I might hit one of them!” she protested.
“That’s what they’re trying to do to us. They’ll do worse if they get their hands on you.”
Rose urged, “Give me Scratch’s rifle! I can fight, too.”
That wasn’t a bad idea. Bo pulled his friend’s Winchester from the saddle boot and passed it to Rose.
“Ought to have a full magazine,” he said, “but try to make your shots count.”
She nodded, a grim expression on her face, and then hurried over to the rock slab where Bo had been stretched out earlier. She climbed onto it and thrust the rifle out just like he had.
Bo put Scratch’s horse next to his. A stray slug might penetrate back here and strike one of the animals, but this was the best he could do for them. He heard another spit and whine as a slug angled off a nearby rock.
Rose and Beth opened fire with the Winchesters.
Bo ran to help Scratch unhitch the team and lead the horses into the rocks. If the bandits were to kill several of the animals, they would be stuck here, with no choice but to sit and wait for whatever fate Jaime Mendoza’s gang had in store for them.
It wouldn’t be good for any of them, Bo knew.
They got the horses into the rocks without being hit. Scratch glanced at Cecilia, Luella, and Jean, who were sitting on the ground, huddled against a boulder. Quietly enough that they wouldn’t hear him over the shooting, he said, “They can just sit out there and lay siege to us. There’s too many of ’em for us to fight our way out.”
“We got enough food, water, and ammunition to hold out for a while. But it’s gonna run out sooner or later.”
“I know, but we have one thing in our favor. We’re not far from the main trail to Silverhill, which means somebody’s going to come along sooner or later and hear the shooting.”
“You reckon they’ll help us?” Scratch asked.
“What would we do if we were riding down the trail and saw somebody pinned down by a bunch of bandits?”
Scratch smiled and said, “We’d be right in the big middle of the ruckus ’fore very much time went by. But ever’body ain’t trouble-hungry fools like us.”
“We’d better hope somebody is,” Bo said.
* * *
Beth slid down from the rock where she had been shooting at the bandits and handed the rifle back to Bo.
“It’s empty,” she said. “I don’t know if I hit any of them or not.”
“I did,” Rose said as she relinquished Scratch’s rifle back to him. “I know I saw at least a couple of them go down.”
Jean practically gasped as she said, “Rose, you shouldn’t talk like that.”
“I don’t see why not. They’re shooting at us, so I think I’m perfectly justified in calling them bastards. And in hoping that I . . . What do they call it in the dime novels? Hoping that I ventilated a couple of them?”
“That’ll do,” Scratch said. “I hope you did, too.”
Another bullet whined through the rocks. Bo said to Rose and Beth, “You ladies sit down with your friends. Stay where you’ve got rocks on both sides of you. It’s more likely that a ricochet won’t hit you there.”
Cecilia asked, “What are we going to do, Mr. Creel? We can’t fight off all those men.”
“No, we can’t,” Bo admitted. “We can’t outrun them in that wagon, either.”
Rose said, “Maybe we could leave the wagon and get away on horseback.”
Bo shook his head. “Those draft horses wouldn’t be any match for the mounts the bandits have,” he said. “A lot of times their lives depend on a fast getaway, so they make sure they have the fastest horses they can find. No, the only thing we can do now is hold them off and wait for somebody to help us.”
Have Brides, Will Travel Page 11
