by Sean Lynch
“You’re supposed to be dead,” one of the incredulous Triple B men said. It was Jim Collins.
“You ain’t the first person to tell me that,” Pritchard said. Four of the five drew on him.
It was over in a second or two.
The first Triple B hand went for a cross-draw pistol while seated, the second for a revolver in his belt, and Collins tried to stand and draw from a belt holster. In a flash, Pritchard drew both of his pistols and shot the two seated gunmen in the face simultaneously. He shot Collins twice, in the elbow and shoulder of his gun hand. He finished by drilling one of the Mexicans, the one drawing a Navy Colt, through the eye. The other Mexican never went for his gun, opting instead to slowly raise his hands.
Pritchard pivoted, with his revolvers leveled, and scanned the rest of the cantina. No one else moved. Ditch suddenly appeared from behind the bar. Franchard entered through the half doors, his shotgun at the ready. Ditch watched as the death-shadow once again dwindled from his friend’s features, and his normally placid countenance returned.
“Bar’s closed,” Franchard loudly announced. “¡Vete de aquí! Get lost!”
Everyone inside the cantina, including the bartender and waitresses, rapidly scurried past Franchard through the front door.
Franchard walked over to the wounded Triple B hand, Collins, lying on the floor in a growing pool of his own blood. His face was twisted in pain, his right arm was useless, and his unfired revolver lay on the ground next to him. Franchard lowered the shotgun until its twin barrels rested against his cheek.
“You,” Franchard said, “are going to tell us where Winston Boone and the rest of his boys are hidin’.” He slowly raised the shotgun and poked the barrels under the nose of the Mexican, who stood, with his hands still raised, like a statue. “And you,” he went on, “are going to tell us about the neighborhood they’re hidin’ in. ¿Comprende? ”
Both men nodded.
Chapter 35
The Triple B hand who’d been shot twice by Pritchard, Jim Collins, died less than ten minutes after the gunfight. The bullet that tore into his shoulder ruptured an artery, and he bled out.
Before he expired, he expressed regret to Pritchard for the death of his fiancée. He further claimed he didn’t know that Winston Boone, his son Wesley, and the other Triple B hands were planning to rape her and kill everyone at the stagecoach station.
Pritchard said nothing in reply. He reloaded his guns without expression and stared silently out into the street.
Franchard, however, called Collins a liar. He said the only way he could prove his dying words as the truth was to tell them where Boone and the remainder of the BB&B hands were hiding out in Mexico.
Collins told them they were holed up at a ranch, a day’s ride south, a couple of miles outside a Mexican town called Zaragosa. Boone had built the place for the specific purpose of storing and transferring American horses and cattle to the Mexican government. Zaragosa had a cantina, which featured a brothel, that serviced the Mexican soldiers who regularly came to take possession of Boone’s stolen stock.
The surviving Mexican, who spoke English, said his name was Alejandro Ruiz. He readily admitted to being an intermediary who brokered the transfer of stolen stock, for a fee, between the Mexican government and Winston Boone’s rustling outfit. He insisted he knew nothing of the Triple B’s attack on Pritchard’s woman, which he considered a cowardly and unforgivable act, and the murder of the stagecoach passengers. He offered, in exchange for his life, to guide Pritchard, Ditch, and Franchard to Boone’s south-of-the-border hideout.
They departed for Mexico the following morning at dawn. The quartet, along with their heavily laden packhorse, waded the Rio Grande at a shallow crossing a few miles south of Del Rio.
Pritchard made it clear to their guide that at the first inkling of treachery on his part, he would be instantly shot dead, and he, Ditch, and Franchard would find Boone’s Mexican ranch themselves. Ruiz signaled his understanding. He hadn’t forgotten the speed with which Pritchard had gunned down four men.
It was a full day’s ride, as Ruiz had promised, to Zaragosa. By sundown, Pritchard, Ditch, Franchard, and their Mexican guide were overlooking Winston Boone’s Mexican spread from the crest of a ridge a quarter mile out.
There was a ranch house, a large bunkhouse, an outhouse, and a barn next to an extensive corral. Ditch pointed out that it was at least as extensive an operation as Winston Boone’s spread back in the States. The horse corral contained at least forty horses, but there were no cows in sight.
Ruiz explained the lack of cattle was because the Triple B outfit had only recently arrived in Mexico, evidently forced to flee as a result of the massacre at the stagecoach station. He conjectured that Boone was probably in the process of soliciting livestock orders from the Mexican army. The three men he’d sent back into the U.S., whom Pritchard killed along with Ruiz’s partner, were scouting for herds to steal. Ruiz admitted his meeting at the cantina in Del Rio with Collins and his two companions was for the express purpose of guiding them to a ranch in Corpus Christi where a vast herd of cattle was ripe for the plucking.
“You’ve been to Boone’s Mexican ranch before?” Franchard asked him.
“Sí. Señor Boone and his son, and a few of his most trusted hands, stay in the ranch house. Sometimes there are Mexican army officers who stay there, too. None of the ordinary hands, whether Boone’s or the Mexican soldiers, are allowed inside. They must remain in the bunkhouse. There are many cots within it, and a kitchen.”
“I see only two guards standing watch outside,” Pritchard said, peering through his spyglass. “The one near the ranch house is in uniform. The one near the bunkhouse looks like a cowhand. There’s smoke coming from both chimneys.” He handed the glass to Franchard, who confirmed his observations.
“No need for any more watchmen,” Franchard commented. “There ain’t no herd to guard yet.”
“You think Winston and Wesley are down there?” Ditch asked.
“I do,” Pritchard said. “I can feel ’em.”
“It is going to be cold tonight,” Ruiz said. “The men will be drinking and playing cards indoors.”
“You honored your word,” Pritchard said to Ruiz. “You did what you said you were going to do and led us to the ranch. I’ll keep my word, too. I give you back your life. You’re free to go.” He retrieved Ruiz’s revolver from Ditch’s saddlebag and extended it to the Mexican.
“I will not leave,” Ruiz said. “These men, who I have done business with, I believed were only rustlers of cattle. I have learned from you that they are men who rape and murder. I will not go. I will stay and help you fight them.”
“You sure you want to do that?” Ditch asked. “Between the Triple B hands and the Mex soldiers, there must be fifty men down there.”
“No matter what you may think of me, Señor Ditch,” Ruiz said, “I am a man of honor. I will fight. Besides,” he accepted his revolver and looked at Pritchard, “I owe your friend my life.”
“It’s your funeral,” Pritchard said.
“Let’s get to it,” Franchard said.
They emptied two sets of saddlebags from the packhorse and transferred the cases of dynamite into them. Franchard fixed what he said was an approximately one-minute fuse to each bag. They also packed bottles of whiskey. Then they set out distributing .44 ammunition and loading cartridges into belts, which each man crisscrossed over his chest. They finished by taking a drink of water and checking their guns. Ditch, Franchard, and Ruiz took rifles. Ruiz was forced to borrow Pritchard’s, since he didn’t have one of his own.
They left their horses tied at the crest and made their way down to the ranch on foot. There was no moon, for which all were grateful. It was easy going, since they had the lights in the windows of both the ranch house and bunkhouse to guide them.
Ruiz led them at an oblique angle to their destination, using the corral full of horses as cover. They took their time, pausing to stop, watch, and
listen at regular intervals. Pritchard was gratified to find Rusty in the corral, and elbowed Ditch when he recognized the big Morgan.
When they were fifty yards from the ranch house, the guard changed. Another Mexican soldier and cowhand came out of the bunkhouse and replaced the two who’d been standing watch.
Franchard held their party in place until the soldier and cowboy lit cigarettes, which they knew would temporarily ruin their night vision. Once they’d fired up, they advanced again. Before the pair of guards finished smoking, they passed the corral.
Franchard and Ditch paired up, taking the saddlebags. Pritchard partnered with Ruiz. Each pair separated and took off in different directions.
Franchard and Ditch went around to the far side of bunkhouse. The Ranger captain stood watch with both rifles while Ditch took the bags and crawled under the wooden foundation.
Pritchard and Ruiz had tougher going. Ditch and Franchard were obscured from view by the bunkhouse, but Pritchard and Ruiz had twenty yards of open space to traverse between the corral and the guards. The bunkhouse’s guard, a Triple B hand, sat on the front porch of the large one-level building, lighting a second cigarette with his Henry rifle across his knees. The Mexican soldier stood his post directly in front of the one-story ranch house’s front door.
Ruiz crept along the bunkhouse, beneath the windows, with his knife in his teeth. He made eye contact with Pritchard, who had worked his way behind a trough near the well, twenty feet from the Mexican soldier.
Ruiz whistled, and both men sprang into action. Ruiz rushed the seated cowboy. As the Triple B guard looked up, he was butt-stroked in the face with a Henry rifle before he could cry out. As he fell, unconscious, Ruiz cut his throat.
The Mexican soldier heard the scuffle behind him, across the yard, and turned to investigate. He saw Ruiz pounce on the other guard. He raised his army-issued Spencer repeating carbine, and was drawing the hammer back, when Pritchard grabbed him from behind. Like Ruiz, the powerful Pritchard struck a blow that rendered the soldier unconscious. He finished the guard by stabbing him in the back of the neck.
Ruiz whistled softly again, and Franchard and Ditch came running toward them. There was no sign their actions had alerted anyone inside either the ranch house or bunkhouse. Ruiz tossed Pritchard his Henry carbine back, having confiscated a similar rifle belonging to the guard he’d just killed.
“The fuses are lit,” Franchard whispered, as he joined Pritchard and Ruiz. All four quietly levered their Henry rifles. “You all know what to do. Once the bunkhouse blows, I’ll take the back of the ranch house, Ditch and Al the sides, and Joe the front. Torch the place, and when they come runnin’ out let ’em have it.”
The four men scurried to duck behind the trough and stone well. Pritchard, Ditch, and Ruiz watched Franchard set down his rifle, close his eyes, and plug his ears with his thumbs. They all looked at one another, then hastily followed suit.
A tremendous explosion erupted under the bunkhouse, followed by a second, equally thunderous, blast an instant later. The two cases of dynamite detonated almost as one.
The ground shook. Pritchard, Ditch, Franchard, and Ruiz felt the concussion all the way to their bones. They sensed the brief flash, even though their eyes were shut. When they opened them, the entire bunkhouse, and the nearly fifty Triple B hands and Mexican soldiers inside, had been obliterated. Only a large, smoking hole, a mushroom-shaped cloud of dust, and a cascade of falling wood splinters and ash remained.
“Get goin’!” Franchard yelled, awakening the others from their awestruck states. They grabbed their rifles and ran to their assigned places surrounding the ranch house.
Pritchard remained behind the trough, which was in front of the ranch house’s front door. No sooner had Franchard, Ditch, and Ruiz vanished into the dust cloud, than the ranch house door flew open and several men began rushing outside.
The first two out were wearing Mexican military uniforms, followed by men in cowboy attire. All were carrying pistols. Pritchard downed three of them with his rifle, working the lever rapidly between shots, before the others were able to retreat inside and close the door. A moment later, he heard shots emanating from the sides and rear of the building. He also smelled smoke.
Pritchard knew that Franchard, Ditch, and Ruiz had thrown whiskey bottles on their respective sides of the ranch house and ignited the flammable beverage. Within a minute or so, he saw flames licking all around the wooden structure.
Then he heard more gunshots. There were many of them, coming from three sides of the ranch house.
Those inside the ranch house, unable to flee through the front door because of Pritchard’s deadly accurate rifle fire, had evidently attempted to exit through the side windows and rear door. Instead of escape, they were met with a blazing inferno, and the equally deadly rifles of Ditch, Ruiz, and Franchard.
After a minute of intense shooting, no further shots rang out, and no more attempts to leave the ranch house were made by those inside. The only sounds were the terrified braying of the horses, whinnying and stomping in the corral in the wake of the massive explosion, and the growing roar of the fire as the exterior of the ranch house steadily burned.
“Reload and stand ready.” Pritchard heard Franchard call out the familiar Ranger after-action order. He reflexively began to recharge his Henry rifle’s fifteen-round tube from the cartridge belt across his chest, and presumed his compatriots were doing the same.
“You outside,” a man’s coughing voice called from inside the burning ranch house. “What do you want?”
“I want every one of you in that ranch house to come out the front door with your hands in the air,” Pritchard answered back.
“If we do that,” the voice said, “you’ll shoot us.”
“That ain’t certain,” Pritchard said. “But what is certain, is we’ve got you surrounded and bottled up. If you don’t come out, you’re going to roast. You can join your friends in the bunkhouse on their way to hell.”
“We’re coming out.”
“Everybody out through the front door,” Pritchard barked instructions. “Anyone who drops their hands below their ears gets plugged. Comprende?”
“We understand. Don’t shoot. We’re all coming out.”
One by one, ten people emerged from the ranch house. As they came out, Franchard, Ditch, and Ruiz rejoined Pritchard at the front.
The first four men out were Mexican army officers. All appeared wounded. They helped one another along, attempting to keep their hands high, as ordered.
The next four men out of the ranch house were Triple B hands Pritchard recognized from the coach house massacre. Finally, Winston Boon stumbled out, helping his son Wesley, who was also obviously wounded. Old Man Boone looked even smaller and more bowlegged without his ten-gallon hat. All the former residents of the ranch house, Mexican and American alike, wore holstered pistols and appeared to have been drinking. Pritchard, Ditch, Franchard, and Ruiz covered them with their rifles.
Winston Boone, a stupefied expression on his ancient face, looked up at Pritchard.
“You’re dead,” Boone exclaimed, disbelieving his eyes. “We already done killed you.”
“You didn’t kill me enough,” Pritchard said.
“I told you, Pa,” Wesley griped, his voice tight with pain. “You should’ve let me finish him off in that stagecoach station. Now lookit what he’s done. He’s wiped us out.”
“You are Americans,” one of the Mexican officers said in excellent English to Franchard. “I know you. I have seen you before, in Dallas. You are a Texas Ranger. The Texas Rangers have no right to be in Mexico.”
“I’m on vacation,” Franchard said.
“I demand you release us at once,” the officer continued, emboldened. He suddenly lowered his hands and stood up straight. “This is illegal. I will not stand for this. I am a major in His Excellency’s army.”
“You’re a rustler and a horse thief in a soldier’s uniform,” Franchard said. “Put your hand
s back up.”
“Rest assured, your government will be made aware of this breach of our country’s sovereignty.”
“Put your hands up,” Franchard said. “Ain’t gonna tell you again.”
“I will take no more orders from you,” the major said. “You have no authority here.”
“Maybe not,” Franchard said, “but my rifle does.” He shot the major dead. Behind the major’s body, the ranch house was now fully engulfed in flames.
“Anybody else have a problem with doin’ what they’re told?” Franchard asked, levering the action on his Henry.
“You can all go to hell, Rangers,” Wesley Boone said. He leaned on his father and spat blood.
“You were the first to line up after my fiancée was laid out on that table, weren’t you, Wesley?” Pritchard said. He tossed his Henry rifle to Ditch, who caught it. He used Pritchard’s carbine, along with his own, to continue covering the prisoners.
“Go for your pistol, Wesley,” Pritchard said. “I’ll give you more of a chance than you gave Caroline.”
Wesley pushed off from his father and glared at Pritchard with unbridled hatred in his eyes. Then he went for his holstered revolver. He’d barely touched it when Pritchard drew and fired. The bullet entered just below his nose. Wesley spun around and fell on his face. Winston Boone cried out and dropped to his hands and knees.
“My boy,” he whimpered. “You killed my boy.”
“Your boy shot an unarmed woman in the back,” Pritchard said. “He died better than he deserved.”
Winston tried to draw his own revolver. Pritchard stepped forward and effortlessly kicked it away. The rest of the prisoners cast uneasy glances at one another.
“I know what you’re all thinkin’,” Franchard said. “There’re eight of you, all armed, and only four of us. Those are pretty fair odds. You might as well go for it. It’s the only chance you’re gettin’ out of us, and a helluva lot more chance than you gave them poor souls at the stagecoach station. Go on,” he challenged. “Draw, you yellow bastards.”
