“Who’s going to do that?” Cecilia asked.
“Somebody’s bound to pass by on the trail.”
“And if they have any sense, they’ll keep right on going! No one’s going to want to get mixed up in a battle with bandits.”
Rose said, “I’d help if I was a man and saw something like that going on.”
“So would I,” Beth added.
Scratch had turned to keep an eye on the bandits, who appeared to have come to a halt for the time being about two hundred yards away. They were within range of the Winchesters, but not close enough for really accurate shooting. Both Bo and Scratch knew it would be smart to save their ammunition and make it last as long as possible, now that they were forted up in the rocks.
Something caught Scratch’s eye, though, and he said, “Bo, you’d better take a look at this.”
“What’s going on?” Bo asked as he joined his friend.
“They’ve stopped shootin’, and now a few of ’em are headed this way on horseback.”
“A feint, maybe, to distract us while some of the others try to flank us?”
“I don’t think so,” Scratch said. “Unless my eyes are playin’ tricks on me—and there’s always a chance of that at our age—one of the varmints has a white flag tied on the barrel of his rifle. I think they’re askin’ for a parley.”
CHAPTER 18
Bo didn’t believe for a second that Scratch’s eyes were playing tricks on him. Despite his age, Scratch still had eyes like a hawk. Bo’s vision was almost that good.
Scratch was right. Bo saw the piece of white cloth flapping in the breeze as the riders came closer. The flag of truce was tied to the barrel of a Winchester, as Scratch had said, and the man holding it rested the rifle butt against his thigh as he rode, so the barrel stuck straight up into the air.
Bo and Scratch knelt behind adjacent rocks. Scratch said, “You reckon that’s Mendoza his own self?”
“Might be,” Bo said. “Or it might be his segundo.”
“They get a little closer, we could blast ’em right outta their saddles.”
“That’s a flag of truce,” Bo said.
“I know, I know. You think they’d honor somethin’ like that if we rode up to them, wavin’ it?”
“I’m not going to shoot a man down in cold blood, even a bandit.”
“All right,” Scratch said. “I was just makin’ an observation.”
And the suggestion was very tempting, Bo thought. If he was certain that one of the men on horseback approaching them was Jaime Mendoza, he might give it some consideration.
Shooting some minor bandit hanger-on wasn’t going to make any difference in their situation, though. And to be honest, killing Mendoza himself probably wouldn’t do them any good in the short run. Some other cutthroat would just assume command of the gang.
“Hold on a minute,” Scratch breathed. “What’s that there on my left?”
“You mean the man riding on that end?”
“Yeah. He sure don’t look like the other two.”
As the riders slowly came closer, Bo saw that Scratch was right. The man holding the flag of truce was in the middle. He wore a high-crowned sombrero, and so did the man to his left.
The man to his right, though, sported a flat-crowned straw boater, which made him look like a Yankee. So did the tweed suit he wore and the round, rimless spectacles that perched on his nose and were attached to a ribbon tied to the button on his coat pocket. A brush of a brown mustache was underneath his nose. His face was pale, even at a distance. He didn’t look like any Mexican bandido Bo had ever seen.
Bo thought for a moment and then said, “Remember when we were talking about Mendoza in El Paso?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“One of the big newspapers back East sent a reporter down here to find Mendoza and ride with his gang.”
“Son of a gun, you’re right,” Scratch said. “I thought it was a damn fool idea. Figured Mendoza probably killed the poor varmint as soon as he showed up.”
Bo said, “I’ve got a hunch we’re looking at that reporter fella right now.”
“Yeah, he looks odd enough to be some newspaper scribbler,” Scratch admitted. “I guess Mendoza didn’t shoot him, after all.”
The three riders had closed to within fifty feet of the rocks.
Bo called out to them, “That’s far enough!”
He had thumbed fifteen fresh rounds through the Winchester’s loading gate, so now he worked the lever to load one in the chamber. The distinctive clacking noise was loud enough for the men on horseback to hear it.
“Come any closer and you’re liable to get your hair parted,” Bo went on. “What do you want?”
“I think you know what we want, señor,” one of the men responded in English. “That wagon of yours . . . and everything in it.”
“I think you should shoot him,” Cecilia said coldly.
Bo lifted a hand and motioned to her to stay quiet for the moment. He called back to the man with the white flag, “And I think you know that’s not going to happen, mister.”
“Oh, but it will, amigo. Sooner or later, one way or another.”
The man was a Mexican, but unlike the two they had encountered earlier, he was clean shaven. His face was smooth and unlined, but Bo had a feeling he wasn’t young. Well preserved was more like it. He wore a black sombrero and a black charro jacket over tight black trousers. An ivory-handled revolver rode in a black holster at his waist.
Bo had a hunch he was looking at the infamous Jaime Mendoza. Mendoza had a reputation for arrogance. He would want to handle this parley himself.
The third man was burly Ernesto, one of the scouts they’d met earlier. If Bo needed any further confirmation that those three had been part of the gang, Ernesto’s presence was it.
The gringo in the funny clothes spoke up. “Sir, if I might prevail upon you for a private word?” he called.
“Who in blazes are you?” Scratch asked.
“Philip Armbruster, sir. One l in Philip. I’m a journalist for the New York World.”
So that hunch was right, too. Bo said, “Mr. Armbruster, you’ve fallen in with bad company.”
Armbruster glanced over at his companions and said, “A journalist’s duty calls him to associate with every sort of person in the world, honestly and objectively, making no sorts of judgment, moral, legal, ethical, or otherwise, in advance, so that we may report only the plain, unvarnished truth.”
Ernesto chuckled and said, “He does go on, doesn’t he?”
“What is it you want to say, Armbruster?” Bo asked.
“If I come forward, you’ll extend the protection of the flag of truce to me?”
“You don’t look like the sort who’d try a double cross,” Bo said. “Come ahead.”
Armbruster edged his mount forward, while Mendoza and Ernesto backed their horses away to give the reporter the privacy he had asked for. Armbruster rode all the way up to the edge of the rocks before Bo told him to stop. As far as Bo could see, Armbruster wasn’t carrying a gun.
“All right, mister, say what you’ve got to say,” Bo snapped.
“And don’t try anything funny,” Scratch added. “As best I recollect, I never shot a journalist before, but they say there’s a first time for everything.”
Armbruster swallowed and said, “I assure you, gentlemen, I intend no treachery.” He started to dismount.
“Just stay in your saddle,” Bo told him.
Armbruster settled back down on the leather and nodded. “Very well. What I came to tell you is that it might be wise for you to cooperate with Señor Mendoza. I believe if you do, he will spare your lives.”
“What in the bloody hell makes you think that?” Scratch asked, obviously astounded at Armbruster’s claim.
“Señor Mendoza would like to be General Mendoza and eventually President Mendoza.”
Scratch groaned and said, “Not another bandit who’s a would-be revolutionary.”
<
br /> “Well . . .” Armbruster glanced nervously over his shoulder and then said in a voice that wouldn’t carry to Mendoza and Ernesto, “Personally, I believe it’s a rather far-fetched ambition, but nevertheless, he’s sincere, and he’s intelligent enough to know that it will further his cause to have support on the American side of the border. That’s why he wrote to the editor of my paper and suggested that the World send someone down here to chronicle his activities. Since my arrival, he and his men have curbed their usual activities—”
“Robbing, raping, and killing,” Bo said.
“Exactly. Well, they’ve still been robbing—raising funds for his political activities, Señor Mendoza calls it—but he’s been trying to alleviate some of his bloodthirsty reputation. That’s why I believe you and your companions will be safe if you cooperate.”
Bo said, “You do know who we have with us, don’t you?”
Armbruster’s face took on a pink flush under the boater’s brim.
“Several very attractive young women, according to the report delivered to Señor Mendoza by Ernesto, Juan, and Howie,” he said. “Their youth, and the fact that you’re heading for Silverhill, led us to believe that they’re, ah, working ladies—”
That was as far as he got before Cecilia said, “Oh!” She pushed up onto her knees and was about to get to her feet as she went on, “We are not—”
“Shut up!” Bo shouted at her, and the sheer shock of him speaking to her that way made her stare at him and fall silent. He motioned curtly for her to sit down again. Slowly, she did so.
Bo’s brain worked rapidly. Cecilia had nearly complicated things and quite possibly made them worse. It was bad enough that Mendoza and the rest of the bandits believed the five young women to be soiled doves. If they found out that Cecilia and the others were mail-order brides and presumably innocent . . .
No matter how much Mendoza wanted to convince an American newspaper reporter of the rightness of his cause, that might be too much temptation for his men to resist. The bandits would go on a spree of lust that would end very badly for their victims.
“Look, Armbruster, we’re not carrying anything valuable,” Bo went on. “Just supplies for the trip, that’s all. No gold or money, and if Mendoza thinks he can get some sort of big ransom for these girls, he’s wrong. They’re not worth anything to anybody but my partner and me.”
Bo hated playing the part of a whoremonger, but he had to convince Mendoza that losing a good number of his men just wouldn’t be worth it.
“I hate to say it, sir,” Armbruster replied, “but attractive young women are always, ah, currency of a sort below the border.”
“Not these,” Bo said, his voice hard and flat. “I’ll put bullets in their brains myself before I let Mendoza have them.”
Several of the ladies gasped in horror at that grim declaration. Cecilia seemed to be catching on, though. She looked like she might understand what he was trying to do.
She proved that by saying loud enough for Armbruster to hear, “You won’t have to, Bo. We’ll kill ourselves rather than let those beasts have us.”
She motioned for the others to stay silent and not protest.
“I reckon that sums it up, Armbruster,” Bo said. “We can’t really stop Mendoza from getting in here among these rocks if he wants to bad enough, but if he tries, we’ll kill six or eight or more of his men—and maybe him, too—and then he’ll be left with nothing. If he wants to throw away those lives, that’s up to him.”
This stratagem had a slim chance of working, Bo thought . . . a very slim chance. But that was better than none at all.
Armbruster sighed and said, “I’ll discuss the matter with Señor Mendoza, but I confess, I’m not optimistic about the outcome of that conversation. His men have gone quite a while without any sort of... diversion. They’re going to be rather insistent about availing themselves of this opportunity.”
“There’s not going to be any opportunity,” Bo said. “Try to get that through his head.”
Armbruster nodded and turned his horse. He rode back to where Mendoza and Ernesto waited. Bo watched as they talked. Ernesto got mad and waved an arm in the air. Mendoza spoke sharply to him. Then Mendoza sent his horse prancing forward a few steps toward the rocks.
“You are making a bad mistake here by spitting in the face of my generosity, amigo,” Mendoza called. “Once I return to my men and give them the order—”
Bo lifted the Winchester to his shoulder, peered over the sights at the bandit leader, and said, “What makes you think you’re gonna be going anywhere and giving any orders?”
CHAPTER 19
Mendoza stiffened in the saddle.
“This is a flag of truce!” he said angrily. “By allowing me to ride up here unmolested, you have entered into a bargain with me, señor!”
Without taking his eyes off Mendoza, Bo turned his head just long enough to spit to the side. Then he peered over the Winchester’s barrel.
“I don’t reckon I’m obliged to keep any bargains made with a bandit,” he said.
“You have no honor!”
“What I have is a forty-four-forty slug with your name on it, mister.”
Mendoza stared at Bo for a couple of heartbeats longer. Then suddenly he whirled his horse, bent low in the saddle, and shouted, “Kill them!”
Bo fired and saw the sombrero leap from Mendoza’s head as the bullet drilled the big hat. Still leaning forward, Mendoza galloped away from the butte. Armbruster trailed him, using one hand to hold the straw boater on his head as he rode frantically after the bandit leader.
Ernesto had yanked out a pistol and started blasting away at the rocks. Scratch’s rifle cracked twice. Ernesto rocked back in the saddle, dropped his gun, and clapped his hand to his chest, where blood started to well out of the wounds and between his fingers. He managed to stay mounted and got his horse turned around so he could flee.
Bo put a rifle round between the big bandit’s shoulder blades. Ernesto flung both arms in the air and toppled off his horse. The animal raced on with an empty saddle now.
“That was a pretty good idea you had,” Scratch called over to Bo, “tryin’ to make them think we’d never let ’em have those gals alive.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Bo muttered under his breath.
“What’d you say?”
“Never mind. Here they come!”
The rest of the bandits surged forward, guns blazing. The Texans returned the fire as swiftly as they could, working the Winchesters’ levers so fast, the shots began to sound like one continuous roar. Powder smoke hazed the air above the rocks. Ricocheting bullets buzzed like a swarm of angry bees.
Several men fell from their saddles. A couple of horses went down and caused chaos as the men behind them tried to leap their mounts over the fallen animals. Once again the solid line of attack broke up as men and horses began to mill around.
Then they were falling back, trying to retreat out of range. Bo and Scratch hurried them along with a few last, well-placed shots.
“They didn’t keep it up as long as I expected,” Scratch said as he lowered his rifle and began to reload.
“We hurt them too much,” Bo said. “It’d be the smart thing for Mendoza to do if he lit a shuck.”
Scratch shook his head and said, “He ain’t gonna do that. His pride’s wounded too bad.”
“I know,” Bo said. “And I reckon I’m to blame for that. I was just taking the only chance I thought we had.”
From the little nest in the rocks where the young women were huddled, Cecilia said, “Are they going to attack again?”
“More than likely,” Scratch told her.
“You should let us fight, too,” Rose said. “We have guns, remember?”
Bo said, “And you remember we told you those little pistols aren’t good for much of anything more than ten feet away?” He paused. “Unfortunately, it may come down to that before this is over. You all have the hammers resting on emp
ty chambers?”
“Just like you taught us,” Beth replied.
“Well, maybe you’d better go ahead and slip another bullet in there. Just in case.”
The ladies looked at each other and then followed that grim suggestion.
* * *
Time dragged, and the heat trapped among the rocks at the butte’s base didn’t help matters any. Bo knew the young women were scared and miserable, but there wasn’t anything he could do to help them right now.
“What are we going to do about food and water?” Cecilia asked. “All our supplies are in the wagon.”
“The wagon’s close enough that we can get to it if we need to,” Bo said. “The way it’s turned, it’ll provide cover, too. Once it starts to get dark, and they can’t see what we’re doing, Scratch or I will get some food and water. I know you’re thirsty, but you’ll have to put up with it for a couple more hours.”
“We’ll be all right,” Rose said. Bo could tell she was trying to sound more confident than she really felt. “You don’t have to worry about us.”
Scratch said, “That’s what ol’ Cyrus is payin’ us to do. It’s our job to get you safely to where you’re goin’.”
“Did you know we’d run into this much trouble along the way?” Cecilia asked.
“There was always a chance of it,” Bo said. “Maybe someday the frontier will be cleared of hostiles and outlaws, but that’s still a long way off.”
“That’s just what we need now,” Rose said. “For some Apaches to come along.”
“Hush!” Jean said. “Don’t wish for such a thing.”
“But maybe the Apaches would kill the bandits, or at least chase them off.”
“And then we’d be left to deal with savages!”
Bo didn’t think they had to worry about Apache renegades from below the border interfering in this standoff. If any Apaches were around, likely they would just keep their distance, wait until all the shooting was over, and then maybe jump the survivors, if they felt like it. It was almost impossible to predict what an Indian would do.
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