If they could hold this lead, they would be across the shallows and back on Texas soil by sundown. Provided there were no Mexicans waiting for them at the river.
~*~
The Ranger captain’s name was Waring and he listened in silence as Lila Lorrance told him her story in full. They were sitting in the Ranger’s office in Madrid, headquarters for the Rangers in that part of Texas. Normally, it was a two-day ride from Amarillo but Lila Lorrance had covered the distance in just under a day and a half. Once she had made her decision, she acted on it promptly.
When she had finished her story, Captain Waring sat back in his chair, taking a cheroot from the pocket of his uniform shirt. He was one of the first officers to outfit himself in some semblance of a uniform and, like the old man-o’-war captains, had provided the men in his troop with uniforms, too. He held up the cheroot, looking quizzically at Lila.
“You mind, ma’am?”
“Not at all, Captain. You’ll pardon my impatience, but are you able to help me? My ranch means a great deal to me.”
He lit the cheroot and puffed aromatic smoke around the office. “Sure it does, ma’am. Can savvy your feelings exactly. Can also savvy why Nick Lacy has held off putting in your claim, but that don’t make your ranch any more secure, does it?”
“It does not. And that’s why I’m here, Captain. If you can’t help me, I’ll take the train down to Austin and seek an audience with the governor himself.”
Waring frowned. “Well, ma’am, it’s my opinion that Governor Dukes don’t know the full of this. He’s a humane man, very fair, very sympathetic to folks’ troubles. I’m sure he don’t realize just how bad you need this here reward, otherwise he’d have authorized its payment long since.”
Lila tensed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She hardly dared to hope that Waring was offering her help.
“Lacy had his orders, I guess, and he carried ’em out as he saw them, but he’s a mite short on imagination, though one fine lawman, ma’am. I reckon I can speak for the governor when I say that under the circumstances the reward should be paid immediately. I’ll countersign these claims and forward them right away. Everything’s in order so I don’t see why you can’t have an advance of the amount of your mortgage.” He smiled crookedly. “I’ll authorize such an advance. I figure you might kind of appreciate it if I made that authorization on your bank in Amarillo.”
Lila, still a little stunned, stared at him, blinked, and then began to smile faintly. “You mean Banker Hines would have to advance me the mortgage money? Against the reward?”
Waring smiled and winked at her as he began to write. “That appeal to you?”
Lila couldn’t answer. She was too busy trying to keep from laughing aloud.
“Yeah, it is a kind of poetic justice, I guess,” Waring said. “It gets you off the hook and I figure this way we can keep it quiet a little longer, too, so it don’t foul-up this undercover assignment of the governor’s. I’ll bring him right up to date, but I know he’ll back me all the way, Miss Lorrance. You should’ve come to see me earlier and saved yourself a heap of worry.”
“I truly wish I had,” Lila said fervently, still unable to believe that the ordeal was over, and that the ranch was safe now. No one could take it away from her. Her only regret was that Morgan and her mother would not be here to share it with her.
Nine – Rio Renegades
The Mexicans were waiting for them at the river. Yancey figured they must have covered nearly fifty miles of border along the stretch where they were expected to appear. Fortunately, this strung-out, the Mexicans could not attack in a bunch. If they had done so, Yancey and his companions would have died right there.
Crossing the remainder of the desert after escaping from the saucer had been an ordeal none of them wished to have repeated in their lives. Although they had outwitted the Mexicans and put the saucer between them during their escape, the men had not given up. They had given chase, forcing the pace, so that Yancey, Chuck and Cato had to keep their weary mounts running. The Mexican horses were either fresher or bred to the desert, for, on these flats, they began to overhaul the fugitives.
There were still seven Mexicans in the chase and they fanned out as they drew within gunshot range and began to close in, shooting. Chuck reacted by lashing and spurring his already lathered and staggering mount. Yancey reached out from the saddle and cuffed him roughly, not wasting words on telling the man to show some sense. Chuck then forced himself to simply ride.
Cato and Yancey hipped in their saddles and their Winchesters blasted in almost continuous volleys until the magazines were empty. The rifles were much faster-shooting than the bolt-actions used by the Mexicans and the two weapons sent a veritable wall of lead back across the desert. They brought down four horses, and two of the riders didn’t get up again. One of the others staggered away with his right arm dangling and flopping uselessly. The other searched around for his dropped rifle and screamed curses.
Yancey reloaded as the remaining Mexicans scattered and dropped back. They had little stomach for the chase now. It had been too prolonged and their leader was dead. Besides, the sun was sinking fast and, if they lost the gringos in the darkness, who could blame them? But they did not drop out of the chase entirely. They stayed behind, out of range, forcing the gringos to keep riding at a fast pace. When the sun went down in a fiery explosion of color that painted the plains with ruddy light, the pursuers gradually dropped farther and farther back and were lost in the darkness as the desert night closed down.
Yancey led the way directly north. They walked their near-jaded mounts, their throats parched and burning, bodies dehydrated, senses reeling from the ordeal of the long chase. Then they came to a broken ridge of sandstone, a stark, pale yellowish color in the moonlight, and began to climb slowly. Chuck started to complain, saying he aimed to rest a spell. Cato rammed his gun-muzzle into his back and jerked his head for Chuck to keep going, adding hissingly:
“Shut-up!”
Chuck said nothing, but staggered to his feet and made his stumbling way up the ridge behind Yancey. They led the horses through the obstacles of broken rocks and splintered, stunted brush, trying to move as quietly as possible for sound carried far on a night like this.
“We must be near the Rio now!” Chuck said and earned a curse and a cuff from Yancey. “You’re kinda free with your fists, brother!” Chuck complained and dodged another swipe.
“Shut up!” Yancey hissed and Chuck subsided and followed on, staggering, ready to drop.
Then they topped the ridge and Yancey motioned for them to cross over in low profile, dragging the animals swiftly after them. It was only after they had made the crossing that they saw below them, the sparkling, wide stretch of the river. Chuck let out a strangled yell and dropped his horse’s reins, pelting down the slope in a stumbling run before either Yancey or Cato could stop him. His horse whinnied and went after him and the others’ horses tore free and ran, too. Yancey threw up his hands.
“What the hell!” he muttered. “Anyone watching the border within twenty miles’ll know we’re here now. Come on, Johnny. We might as well get ourselves some of that water while it’s going.”
They slid and staggered down the slope and threw themselves into the shallow river water amongst the thirstily sucking horses. Chuck was sprawled full length, immersing his face and head, gulping down the muddy water.
Then the first shot zipped into the water near Yancey and he heard it thunk solidly into the river bottom. He jerked his head up, starting to push upright, then fell flat again as a second shot ripped through the high crown of his hat. Cato had already thrown himself back and Chuck floundered in the water, gurgling as he yelled. Yancey spotted the lances of flame from the gun-muzzles. Three across the river, two behind. He heard horses running downstream, too, and figured other Mexicans were riding up. He brought up his six-gun as he ran back to snatch at the flying reins of his horse. Chuck was up now and looking for a mount, bewildered. Cato
swung aboard his prancing mount, the Manstopper hammering as the animal whirled in the shallows. A man screamed and another ran for cover. Yancey grabbed Chuck’s collar and literally heaved him up behind him on the horse. Then he rammed home the spurs and sent the weary animal forward across the river. To his left he saw the riders coming from downstream. There was so much water spraying about that he couldn’t tell how many there were. He triggered two shots at them, then threw down on a man who ran out into the river bringing up a smoking Mauser. The Colt blasted and the Mexican went down, water fanning out, silver in the moonlight. Cato’s Manstopper’s shot-barrel boomed, horses whinnied thinly and a bunch of riders went down in a welter of flying spray and mud.
Other riders were coming in from the right and Yancey emptied his six-gun at them, cursing as his horse stumbled. He didn’t know if it had slipped on the river pebbles or if it had been hit. He yanked it upright and Chuck reached past him and hauled the Winchester from the saddle scabbard as Yancey tried to reload without slackening pace. The rifle crashed and near-deafened Yancey but he saw a man go down. The rifle whiplashed several times, but he didn’t see anyone else being hit. By that time his Peacemaker was reloaded and he blasted under his mount’s straining neck as a Mexican ran at him with an upraised machete. The bullet tore the man’s face apart and he stumbled against Yancey’s leg. He kicked the convulsing body away and fired into a group of others on foot who were leaping at the horse’s reins. Chuck swung the rifle wildly, cracking skulls. Yancey kicked even as he felt the mount going down beneath him. Cato let out a roar and rode full-tilt into the men afoot, scattering them, the impact throwing bodies right and left as he charged through and up the bank. Yancey was in the water now, slamming out with his fist and striking savagely with the gun barrel. He fired into a man’s body and heaved him away, looking for Chuck.
His brother was swinging the Winchester by the barrel, in a wide, deadly arc, and Mexicans were ducking and falling over each other in an attempt to get away. Then Cato came riding back in, yelling, shooting, driving his mount into the men. The riders from downstream began to converge on the fighting, yelling group and Yancey figured they were done for. The odds were too great. If the Mexicans had been a little more concentrated, they would never have made it this far. As it was, they were within half a dozen yards of the Texas bank of the Rio.
Well, it looked like they would at least die on Texas soil, he thought, crashing his gun butt down onto a dark skull.
Guns exploded and men yelled and swore in Spanish and American. There were grunts and groans, the high-pitched whinnying of horses, the splash of water. There was chaos and pain and a violent timelessness splashed with blood and the muddy waters of the Rio Grande del Norte. Yancey was down on his knees, fighting off two men, slugging at one with his fist, ripping his foresight across the dark, snarling face of the other. Cato’s gun was empty and he used the heavy weapon like a club. Chuck fought with animal fear, slamming out with the brass butt-plate of the rifle, whimpering, afraid he was living his last moments on earth.
All three of the gringos were convinced of this.
Then, vaguely, through the din, Yancey heard gunfire and he felt the man he was struggling with jerk and spin away, hearing the sodden impact of a bullet striking flesh. Another man towering above him with a club of some sort crashed backwards. Someone else screamed and the gunfire was much clearer. Mexicans yelled and ran back into the water, trying to catch wild-running horses, making for the Mexican side.
Yancey, on his knees, clawed blood and water from his eyes, swayed and put down a hand to keep from falling. He saw a group of riders on the American bank, riding out into the shallows, guns blazing. Chuck crawled forward on his belly through the inches-deep water while Cato sat up, blinking, blood running down his face.
“Well, I’ll be ...!” he gasped. “The Rangers’ border patrol!”
“God bless ’em!” Yancey said fervently, falling over onto his side and lying there, breathing raggedly, waiting for the Rangers to come up.
He hoped that Cato had his Enforcer identification papers with him, otherwise they could all be hauled off and thrown into a jail cell while somebody did some fast checking-up. And they had to get to Bodie without delay now. The longer it took, the more chance there was of word reaching Lansing and his hardcases that ‘Sundance’ was not who he claimed to be.
If word got out to that effect, riding into Bodie would be the same as holding a gun to his head and pulling the trigger.
~*~
The man called Lansing was a mean-eyed sonuver who swaggered through the streets of Bodie with three or four of his hardcases always close by. One of these was a bullet-headed man, very beefy, thick-shouldered, and he wore two low-slung guns. His name was Lewis and he was a man who had to stay away from the State of Colorado because of the murder warrants out for him, under another name. He kept his bullet head shaved and his seamed face, too, because the Wanted dodgers carried the picture of a man with bushy hair and beard to match. The other two hombres who walked with Lansing and Lewis down Bodie’s main drag right now were just as dangerous, and wanted for various crimes in other States.
Lansing had Bodie buffaloed. On the very first day of his arrival he had tangled with the law and gunned down the sheriff. It was a square off, but Lansing had prodded the lawman into going for his gun. The deputy was a young man and he hadn’t been hard to bluff. Lansing laid it on the line: The deputy could keep his badge and still boss his batch of temporary lawmen who patrolled the town when a trail herd was in, but he took orders from Lansing. There was no choice. The deputy either agreed, or died on the spot, so naturally enough, he had agreed. And Lansing had virtually taken over the town with his hardcases.
Trail herds were in and Lansing’s men picked fights and left some of the cowmen battered or near-crippled. A couple had been shot-up in gunfights but only one man had been killed.
Bodie folk didn’t like what was happening, but no one was about to tell Lansing that. The cowmen banded together and decided they would take out this bunch of gunslingers, but Lansing had figured this in advance and he rode out with his men and shot up the camp, stampeding the herds to hell and gone. That kept the trailmen busy for days, rounding them up again.
Meantime, Lansing lorded it over Bodie and right now he was on his way to the telegraph office. He thought it was about time that they heard from this hombre Sundance, who was supposed to be coming in and organizing things. Though Lansing figured Sundance wouldn’t be able to ‘organize’ things much better than he had already. He was so pleased with the way things were going that he aimed to hit Sundance’s boss, Brandon, for a bonus.
At the telegraph shack, at the far end of the railroad depot, Lansing motioned for Lewis and the others to stay outside and he went in, going straight behind the counter. The operator started to protest before he realized who Lansing was and froze with his mouth open, half out of his chair. He eased back down slowly and nodded, running a tongue across his lips.
“Howdy, Mr. Lansing.”
“Any wires for me?” Lansing growled.
“Yessir,” the man said, already searching amongst some message forms. Then he reeled out of his chair as Lansing smashed him across the side of the head with his fist. Blinking, head ringing, he lay there, and shuddered when a boot drove against his side. He lifted an arm protectively but Lansing grabbed his shirtfront and heaved him to his feet, shaking him savagely.
Lansing cuffed him across the mouth. “You dumb son of a bitch! I told you I wanted to see any messages that came in right away!”
“There was no one to relieve me, Mr. Lansing!” the man protested. “I—I’d lose my job if I left the telegraph unattended!”
Lansing swore and heaved the man back into his chair, holding out his hand, face ugly with anger. “Let me have it!”
“Th-there’s two,” the man stammered, searching frantically amongst the yellow forms. He found one and handed it to Lansing, hand shaking. Then he started looking fo
r the other.
Lansing read slowly, forming the words soundlessly with his lips. The message read: THIS END SUCCESSFUL STOP SUNDANCE ON WAY TO BODIE STOP BRANDON MESSAGE ENDS.
He folded it and put it away into his shirt pocket and shook the operator’s shoulder. “Where’s the other one?”
“H-here, sir!” the man stammered and swiftly handed Lansing the second form. “I don’t savvy it but mebbe it makes sense to you …”
“Shut-up,” Lansing growled, spelling out the words soundlessly again. He looked up sharply from the paper, waved it under the man’s nose. “That’s all?”
The operator swallowed and nodded jerkily. Lansing glared, spat a curse, then spun on his heel and strode out of the shack. The operator sagged in his chair with relief. Outside, Lansing, holding the second message form, raked his eyes across his henchmen.
“Everythin’ all right, boss?” Lewis asked.
Lansing looked at him squarely. “Brandon says Sundance is on his way here.”
“Fine! Now we can really get moving!”
Lansing, face hard, held up the second message form. “But this one, from a pard of mine up north, says Sundance has been killed and there’s a reward been paid. To some damn woman who shotgunned him to death in Amarillo.”
Lewis frowned. “Amarillo? Hellsakes, when was this?”
Lansing glanced at the message form. “Nigh on three weeks ago.”
“Judas!” Lewis said. “When was that telegram sent, then?”
“Yesterday,” Lansing said heavily.
Lewis and the others frowned puzzledly. “I don’t get it, boss.”
Lansing’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “Simple enough. The hombre who’s ridin’ in here callin’ himself Sundance, ain’t him at all.”
“Then who the hell is he?”
“We’ll find out,” Lansing told him. eyes pinched down. “Before we kill him!”
Bannerman the Enforcer 8 Page 11
