Rocky Mountain Retribution (The Ames Archives Book 2)

by Peter Grant

  “If you find what I need, I’ll pay it. Should I give it to your contact in Taos?”

  “That will be acceptable.”

  “Where will I find him?”

  “Look for the Cantina de Flores. Ask for Carlos, the owner. Tell him your name, and that I sent you.”

  “I’ll do that.” He rose to his feet. “Thanks for seeing me, señora. I’ll look forward to hearing your news in Taos.”

  “I hope I shall have something for you by the time you get there. Good night, señor.”

  Walt returned to the hotel, to find the seven men waiting in the saloon next door. They were clearly on tenterhooks to hear what he had to say.

  “Relax,” he said with a grin as he walked into the barroom. “We aren’t in a hurry to leave.”

  “Does that mean we can spend Navidad here, señor?” Pablo asked eagerly. “It is a big fiesta time for my people.”

  “Yes, we’ll take a few days here to rest ourselves and our horses, so you can have your fun. After that, we’re heading north, into the bottom edge of the Rocky Mountains. We’re going to pay a visit to a little valley, south of the Colorado border.”

  Walt lay prone on the ridgetop, the shadow of a bush next to him helping to conceal his bare head as he peered through binoculars at the farm below. The main building, made of whitewashed adobe, was compact, its flat roof surrounded by a low wall with firing notches cut into it, visible evidence of how those who’d built it, years before, had defended their home against Indian raids. The barn to its left was big enough for half a dozen horses, and a wood bunkhouse on the right appeared large enough for about that number of men. Further up the valley, where it opened out to a broader expanse between steep rocky ridges, a series of small adobe cottages probably housed local farm workers. Each had its own vegetable plot behind it.

  A rider trotted down a trail that led from higher up the valley. He reached the buildings and turned off the trail into the farmyard, swinging down from his horse. A stable hand, a Mexican peasant youth, hurried to take the animal’s reins, and led it into the corral next to the barn. As they watched, he removed the saddle, hung it over the fence, and took off the horse’s bridle. It walked over to the water trough.

  “That looks like Morley, judging from the descriptions we’ve got,” Walt said quietly, watching the man walk into the front door of the ranch house.

  “Sure does,” Isom whispered. “Did you notice his hoss, boss? It seems to have a white mark on its forehead. Does that remind you of somethin’?”

  “Why are you whispering? We must be half a mile from them!”

  “Sorry, boss,” his sidekick replied ruefully. “Guess I forgot.”

  “That’s all right. Better too quiet than too noisy!” Walt trained his binoculars on the horse, then shook his head. “Let me try my spyglass. That’ll bring him much closer.” He handed the binoculars to Isom, and took the small leather-covered brass telescope from his pocket. It had belonged to—or, at least, been in the possession of—the older son of a family of bushwhackers in Kentucky. They’d tried, and failed, to waylay him on his journey home after the Civil War. It had served him very well since that day.

  Extending the spyglass, he peered at the horse as it drank thirstily. “You’re right. That’s a white star, and it’s got white stockings on its near front and off rear legs. It looks to be about fifteen hands high. That’s likely one of the two horses Parsons got from Smith in Pueblo.”

  “Is he here, d’you reckon, boss?”

  “I doubt it. Those were decent horses, but not great, according to Smith. Parsons used them because he had nothing better, but once he got to wherever he was going, he probably had better ones waiting, or bought them. It wouldn’t surprise me if he put Smith’s horses into his remuda. Morley probably brought it here as one of his spare mounts.”

  “That makes sense—hey, look at that man comin’ out o’ that end room in the bunkhouse, boss!”

  Walt moved the spyglass to focus on the new objective. The room appeared to have been added on to the bunkhouse later than the main structure, and had its own door. A swarthy man had just come out. He was standing in front of the open door, buckling the belt on his trousers. Another, sitting on the porch nearby, rose to his feet, loosening his belt. He went inside, and closed the door.

  “That ain’t an outhouse, boss, so why would they be doin’ up or undoin’ their belts?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Walt confessed.

  From the other side of Isom, Pablo commented, “Perhaps they have a woman in there. It is not unknown for bandidos to kidnap peasant women, or perhaps Indians, and use them until they have had enough; then they kill them. A room like that would be the kind of place where they would keep someone like that.”

  “Those bastards!” Isom’s voice throbbed with rage.

  “I do not know if that is what is going on, amigo, but it is possible. Those three men have the look of bandidos. They are dirty, unshaven, wearing filthy clothes—but their guns are clean. Ordinary campesinos, farm workers, would not wear belt guns; and they would be cleaner. They have to look better, since they have to persuade, rather than threaten, to get what they want.”

  “That figures,” Walt agreed. “All right, we’ve seen enough. Isom, have you spotted a way down the ridge behind them?”

  “Sure have, boss. I’ll take three men with me. We’ll start from that tree on the far ridgeline, move down that gulley, and come out where the stream flows out of that thicket. We should get clear of the bushes far enough away that the noise we make movin’ through ’em can’t be heard at the house. After that, it’s just a matter of creepin’ up quietly.”

  “All right. Try to check on whoever or whatever is in that room. If it’s a woman, keep her safe, if you can, once the shooting starts. I’ll bring three of us down the trail at dawn on horseback, shooting as we come, to draw their attention. Take the men in the bunkhouse, then move forward to the main building. I want Morley alive if possible. Kill him only if he won’t surrender, or if it looks like he’ll get away.”

  “What if he won’t come out? What if he tries to make a stand inside?”

  “We’ll just have to play that card if he deals it. One way or another, we’ll take him.”

  * * *

  That night, as the others made their preparations, Walt sat by the fire and thought. At last he rose and unstrapped the short rifle boot from his saddle, containing his Winchester carbine. He took a longer rifle boot from a pack saddle, holding his heavy Remington single-shot rifle, and attached that instead.

  “Not usin’ the carbine tomorrow, boss?” Isom asked, surprised.

  “No. If we’re shooting from the backs of running horses to begin with, we aren’t going to be real accurate, no matter what. If Morley or any of the others manages to get to a horse and run for it, we may need to make a long shot to stop them. This’ll do that, where the Winchester won’t.”

  “Makes sense—and you’re good enough with it to make a shot like that.”

  Rolling into his blankets, and pulling the heavy buffalo duster over them as a top layer, Walt could only hope Isom was right.

  Jack had the early morning watch. He woke them at three, shaking everyone until they slapped his hand away with rude suggestions about what he should do with it. He merely grinned. “Coffee’s on,” he told Walt. “Get it quick, before everyone else does.”

  They saddled up and headed out shortly after four, to give themselves time to get into position before dawn. Isom and his men left their horses with the main party a mile away from the farm buildings, and faded into the moonlit darkness. Walt knew the former sergeant had done this sort of thing more than once before, before on punitive raids against the Comanche in Texas. He had no doubt he’d be in position when the time came.

  He and the others dismounted and huddled in a grove of stunted trees, waiting for first light. It was a long, cold vigil, and they were all shivering by the time the ridgelines could be seen, faintly outlined against the s
ky.

  “Guess we’d better get ready,” Walt said, struggling to his feet as his knees protested painfully. He stamped a couple of times to loosen his limbs. “Tom, you drew the short straw, so you lead the other horses. Bring them after us as soon as the shooting stops.”

  The big man sighed. “I’d rather be with you, boss.”

  “It’ll be someone else’s turn next time,” Walt reassured him. He turned to Jack and Pablo. “Mount up and draw your guns. Not long now.”

  They obeyed, each man drawing a revolver and making sure he had ready access to another gun, in a holster or a saddle boot, in case of need. Walt drew the revolver from his right-hand holster, then made sure the rawhide retaining loop was over the hammer of the gun in his cross-draw holster, to secure it against falling out while his horse was galloping.

  Silently they watched as the light grew stronger, and the features of the ridgelines and the valley between them became visible once more. The farm buildings were hidden over a rise ahead.

  At last Walt said, “Let’s start moving forward. I reckon, by the time we reach the top of that rise, the first rays of the sun will hit the far ridgeline. Soon as it does, we go hell for leather down the trail, hollering and shooting like demons. That should make everyone look our way, and give Isom and his team a chance to deal with them.”

  “Hope those bandidos don’t deal with us first,” Jack said lugubriously.

  “We’ll be on horseback, moving fast, an’ in the shadow of the ridgeline,” Walt pointed out. “I doubt they’ll be able to get a clear shot at us before they’re under fire themselves.”

  “I sure hope so!”

  “Remember, shoot at the main house, not the bunkhouse—you don’t want to hit our men. All right, follow me.”

  Walt touched his heels to his horse’s ribs, and it stepped forward obediently. He held it to a slow walk up the rise, his eyes flickering from the road to the far ridgeline, anticipation growing within him, trying to ignore the feeling of a hot wire threading its way into his stomach. Pre-battle nerves were nothing new to him, but they were never pleasant.

  As they crested the rise, a point of rock on the far ridgeline suddenly lit up. “That’s it,” Walt called, the need for quiet past at last. “Let’s go!”

  They spurred their horses into a gallop, pulling slightly away from each other to navigate the narrow trail in single file. Walt waited until they were halfway down, then let out an ear-splitting Rebel war cry as he lined his revolver. It was impossible to aim accurately at such speed, but he triggered three fast shots. Behind him, Pablo and Jack opened fire as well.

  * * *

  Isom approached the bunkhouse in almost complete silence, easing forward across the rough grass as if he were walking over eggshells. He gestured with the hook on his right arm, and Sam and Jacob, well accustomed to such attacks, spread out on either side. Behind them, Nate hefted Walt’s shotgun. He’d borrowed it for the occasion.

  As the first light brightened the sky, Isom eased open the door of the end room. It was pitch black inside, and he could hear someone’s labored breathing. It didn’t sound like a man. He muttered a sub-vocal curse as a female voice whimpered softly. He dared not light a match, but stayed in the doorway, shaking his head in what he hoped was an encouraging negative. “I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he whispered softly. “Stay there. We’re gonna deal with these men. Don’t be scared if you hear gunfire.” The woman made no reply. He didn’t know if she’d understood him, but her whimpering stopped.

  He knew, without looking around, that Nate would have moved up behind him, while Sam and Jacob crept down the back wall of the bunkhouse to its far end. They’d wait to catch the men inside in a crossfire as they emerged—if any survived to do so, that is. Isom grinned evilly as he withdrew a stick of dynamite from inside his coat. It was fused with thirty feet of quick match. He eased forward and leaned it gently against the door of the bunkhouse, then led the fuse back to the edge of the building. Taking a match from a pocket, he whispered into the open door of the end room, “There’s gonna be a big bang. Don’t worry. It’s us.” Again, no answer came.

  He stepped off the porch and moved around to the side of the building, where Nate was already crouched. “Reckon this’ll work?” the big cowpuncher asked softly.

  “It should. Most of the explosion will go out into the yard, but that door ain’t well made. This should be enough to blow it open, no matter what they got holdin’ it closed. The men inside will be wakin’ up to Walt’s charge. They’ll be half-asleep an’ real confused. The dynamite will make that worse. They should be easy targets. You just keep that shotgun handy, in case any of ’em get through the door.”

  “I will.”

  They waited in silence, Isom peering up at the ridge he’d just descended. As the first sunbeam struck its peak, he whispered, “They’ll be comin’ now. Stand by!”

  He held the match head against a porch plank, waiting tensely. As soon as he heard Walt’s yell and first shot, he scraped it along the wood. As it ignited sulphurously, he touched it to the fuse. A spark shot down the quick match, almost faster than the eye could follow. With a thunderous boom and a red-yellow flash, the stick of dynamite exploded. Splinters and chunks of wood flew outwards as the door crashed inward.

  Sam and Jacob rushed to the windows from the far side of the bunkhouse, while Isom moved to cover the end room’s doorway and Nate ran out into the yard, covering the building with the shotgun. There was a flurry of firing as Sam and Jacob shot down two of the men inside; but the third, recovering faster from the shock of the explosion than the others, hurled himself through the open doorway, shooting as he came. Isom yelled as the man’s first slug, fired almost at random, slammed into his thigh. He fell to the ground, cursing luridly.

  As the figure emerged, Nate swung the shotgun into line. Before the gunman could fire a second time, he triggered it, its coughing roar sounding almost as deafening as the dynamite. His target screamed as the heavy load of buckshot slammed into his hips and upper legs, and fell forward. He tried to raise himself, but Nate fired again, the charge smashing into his head and shoulders. The gunman collapsed, dead on the spot.

  “You all right, Isom?” Nate called as he broke open the shotgun, discarding the fired rounds and reloading hurriedly with two more he took from his pocket.

  “Yeah! Never mind me! Get the man in the house!”

  “We got the two in there!” Sam called. He and Jacob turned from the bunkhouse windows and sprinted for the main building. Nate closed the shotgun, cocked its hammers, and followed them.

  * * *

  Walt saw the flash and heard the loud boom as the dynamite exploded. It was followed almost instantly by a flurry of firing, culminating in two deep booms that he recognized as the sound of his shotgun. He grinned savagely. It might kick like a mule, but it dealt out wickedly lethal punishment from the other end. It sounded as if one of Morley’s gun hands had just found that out that the hard way.

  As he fired his fourth shot at the farmhouse, he saw a shadowy figure break from it and go zig-zagging across the yard in the half-light. It turned to fire several shots at the three men approaching from the bunkhouse, and they hit the dirt, shooting back; but the figure vanished into the barn’s open doors, seemingly unhurt. Walt cursed, and spurred his horse. If Morley managed to fort up in there, among the cover and protection provided by stalls and equipment and animals, it’d be the devil’s own job to get him out without suffering casualties themselves.

  Almost at once, Morley proved that was exactly what he had in mind. As Walt slowed his horse to turn into the farm yard, another shot sounded from the barn. Walt’s horse screamed as it stumbled. Instantly Walt kicked his feet clear of the stirrups. He threw himself out of the saddle as the animal fell, rolling out of its way as it crashed down. Fortunately, it landed on its left side, not on the rifle in the saddle boot on its right. He cursed, lifted his revolver, and shot the struggling, suffering animal in the head as it thrashed arou
nd. It collapsed, and he wriggled forward into the cover provided by its body. Another round from the barn thudded into it as he did so.

  Tom and Jack jumped their mounts over the fallen horse and charged into the farm yard, steering their animals behind the farmhouse to gain the protection of its thick adobe walls. The three men running from the bunkhouse joined them there. The gunfire slowed, then ceased.

  Walt half-raised himself. “Morley! Morley! You hear me?”

  A muffled voice came from the barn. “I hear you. Who’s talkin’?”

  “This is Walt Ames! I don’t want to kill you—I’m after Parsons! If you come out with your hands up, and answer my questions, I’ll let you go when we’re done!”

  “Yeah, sure you will—just like you let Furlong go! What the hell are you doin’ here, anyway? We thought you was in New York, havin’ some sawbones cut on your arm!”

  Walt rejoiced inwardly to learn that his ruse had succeeded. “Well, I’m not. Furlong attacked me and killed my wife. He got what was comin’ to him.”

  “I heard about that. Why’d you come after me? I had nothin’ to do with it!”

  “Parsons helped kill her when he set up that attack on my wagons. He’s going to pay for it. You ride for him, so you’re part of it.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “I know that. If you tell me where he is, you get off scot-free.”

  “Like hell I will! You’ll kill me anyway. I don’t trust you.”

  As they shouted back and forth, Walt eased the heavy Remington rifle out of its saddle boot, cocked it, and laid it over the body of his dead horse, searching for a target. Morley was inside the barn, invisible, but his voice seemed to be coming from beneath a small, glassless window opening. Walt listened carefully, trying to narrow down his location.

  “Why would I kill you if you tell me what I need to know?” he called.

  “Because you’ll figure I’ll wire Parsons to warn him about you. You’ll never trust me to just ride away.”