by Braun, Matt;
“On the contrary.” McNelly’s voice was barely audible, but there was an undercurrent of authority to the words. “Either you stay put, or I’ll haul you down to Brownsville and throw you in jail. You see, it’s my game now, Mr. Laird, and I feel the same way you do. I won’t allow anyone to spoil it for me.”
There was a long pause of weighing and appraisal as the two men examined one another. McNelly saw urgency and homicidal fury in Laird’s eyes, and knew he was dealing with a man whose sole reason for existence had now become vengeance. Still, he had a job to do, and it was essential that the Rangers establish their reputation from the very outset. Everyone along the border, on both sides of the Rio Grande, had to be convinced that law and order had been restored. And the place to start was with Hank Laird.
At last, with a faint smile, McNelly broke the tension. “Look at it this way, Mr. Laird. You’re wounded, and it’s plain to see you’re in no shape to go off hunting bandits. So there’s nothing to lose by letting us handle it, and you’ve got my word, we’ll settle the score with Cordoba.”
Laird considered a moment, then gave him a slow nod. “One week, McNelly. By then, I’ll be mended and well enough to ride. Either show me some results or you’ve got my word on it—I’ll take matters into my own hands.”
“I wouldn’t advise it, Mr. Laird, but we’ll leave it there and see how things work out. Been nice talking with you.”
McNelly glanced at Trudy, touched the brim of his hat, then turned and walked back to his horse. He stepped into the saddle, signaled his men, and wheeled the column out of the yard. A few moments later, the Rangers rode through the front gate and disappeared across the prairie.
After a prolonged silence, Laird pushed away from the banister and hobbled to his rocker. He sat down heavily, face drained of color, one hand clutching the wound in his side. Trudy crossed the porch, eyes filled with concern, and placed an arm around his shoulders.
“Don’t worry, Pa. He’s all talk and no show.”
“Aye, but then again, he puts me in mind of a banty rooster. And they’re damn good fighters. Might be he’ll turn the trick.”
“Maybe so, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Funny thing, now that I think about it ... I would.”
The public square was all but deserted. Business came to a standstill at noon, and Brownsville, like all border towns, wisely observed the custom of siesta during the midday heat. Yet today there was an ominous quality to the stillness, and while Brownsville appeared somnolent, the townspeople waited indoors with a sense of expectancy.
On the hotel veranda, Laird and Sam Blalock were seated in cane-bottomed rockers, talking quietly. Their attention was fixed on the north end of the plaza, where Ramon Morado and fifty vaqueros squatted in the shade of a huge live oak. Time seemed protracted, creeping past with interminable slowness, and their conversation ceased as a clock inside the hotel struck the half-hour. Blalock pulled out a pocket watch and clicked open the cover. He consulted it a moment, mouth pursed in a frown, then looked up.
“Twelve-thirty. Think he’ll still show?”
“Aye, I’ve no doubt he’ll be here.”
“Well, he sure as hell’s not the punctual type, is he?”
“You underestimate the man, Sam. He said noon, but he wouldn’t have spread the word unless he meant to draw a crowd. It figures he’d be late.”
“Crowd?” Blalock arched one eyebrow, slowly inspected the square. “Hope he’s bringin’ a brass band. He’ll need it to wake up this burg.”
“I’ve an idea McNelly has something better in mind.”
“Yeah, maybe so.” Blalock snapped the watch closed and returned it to his vest pocket. “Well, anyway, like I was saying ... walked into the saloon and there was Joe Starling big as life. Had the mayor and half the town council with him. The way I got the story, he’s promoting a bond issue and telling everybody he means to lay track between here and Rio Grande City.”
“Joe should’ve been a pitchman. He’s got the knack for it.”
“That’s pretty tame, comin’ from you. There was a time you’d’ve run him out of town just for the hell of it.”
“And I might again. But right now I’ve got other problems.”
“McNelly?”
“Aye, him and Cordoba. One way or another, I intend to have it settled.”
Laird clamped a cigar in his mouth, puffing on it with a cold expression. Almost two weeks had passed since his exchange with McNelly at Santa Guerra; despite his promise to take the field against Cordoba, he wasn’t fully recuperated from his wounds, and none too graciously he’d conceded to Trudy that he wasn’t yet in fighting trim. But he could manage to sit a horse, and before dawn he’d left the ranch, trailed by a heavily armed escort. The trip to town, though it had sapped his energy, was prompted by a summons from McNelly. One he could hardly refuse.
Late yesterday evening a courier had ridden into Santa Guerra. He brought word of a battle between McNelly’s Rangers and a large band of cattle rustlers. Apparently the fight had taken place on Palo Alto prairie, some miles northeast of Brownsville, but the details were sketchy, and other than McNelly’s cryptic message, the courier had little to relate. McNelly requested that Laird meet him in town, no later than noon the following day, and indicated that a message had been dispatched to the authorities in Brownsville. No reason was given, nor was McNelly’s purpose entirely clear. It was simply a hook, baited with scraps of information, and Laird took it.
Now, puffing on his cigar, he waited, staring off across the plaza, wondering what it was McNelly had up his sleeve.All the way into town he had thought about it, examining various possibilities, yet he’d arrived at only one conclusion. Angela’s death was still to be.avenged, and whatever happened today, McNelly wouldn’t stop him from going after Cordoba. The debt was owed and he meant to collect.
Sam Blalock suddenly grunted an oath, and Laird started, glancing quickly toward the north end of the square. For an instant his attention was drawn to the horsemen, then he saw the wagon. He stood, slowly removed the cigar from his mouth, and walked to the edge of the veranda.
Led by McNelly, the Rangers were split into two columns, with an old farm wagon in the center. Several Rangers bore the signs of battle, their wounds wrapped in crude bandages, and a Mexican, whose features appeared swollen and bruised, drove the wagon. Laid out in the wagon bed, arms and legs akimbo, were the bodies of nearly a dozen bandidos.
Staring straight ahead, McNelly led the column to a tree in the middle of the plaza. There, the Rangers dismounted and four of them clambered aboard the wagon. Quickly, like men unloading cordwood, they began grabbing arms and legs, and dumped the bodies on the ground. The bandidos were blood-spattered, putrid in the noonday heat, and a breeze carried the stench of death across the plaza. By the time the Rangers were finished, doors began opening around the square and along side streets. The people of Brownsville, Anglo and Mexican alike, gathered near the buildings, hesitant to come closer, staring at the grisly scene.
McNelly, who was still mounted, waited a long while, eyeing the crowd. At last, when the square filled with onlookers, he barked a command. A rope was thrown over a low branch on the tree, and two Rangers hustled the bandido driver to the rear of the wagon bed. His hands were tied behind his back and a noose quickly cinched around his neck. The tailgate was lowered, and at McNelly’s signal, another Ranger led the team forward. The bandido swung off the wagon, thrashing and kicking, his walnut features slowly turning purple and then black as the noose cut deeper into his throat. Several minutes passed, with the crowd watching in awed silence, before the bandido choked to death. Then his body went slack, on plumb with the rope, twisting gently in the wind.
An oppressive quiet settled over the square, and a moment later McNelly reined his horse around. He rode across the plaza, halted before the hotel, and stepped down from the saddle. His ex
pression was stoic, revealing nothing, and he walked directly to the veranda, eyes fixed on Laird.
“I’m a few days late, Mr. Laird, but as you can see, I’ve kept my part of the bargain.”
“Says who?” Laird demanded. “What’ve you got there, twelve, maybe fourteen dead ones? That’s not enough. Not near enough.”
“Perhaps, but it’s a good start. You see, I deal in examples, Mr. Laird. By tonight, the families of those men will have their bodies back across the river, and it’ll make a nice object lesson for anyone with ideas about turning cow thief.”
“Come off it, McNelly. You haven’t even made a dent in Cordoba’s bravos, and you’re standing here talking about object lessons. I’ll thank you not to play me for a fool.”
McNelly jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “See the one on the rope?”
“Aye, I’m not blind.”
“Last night some of my boys persuaded him to talk. Told us a real interesting story about a place called Las Cuevas. Ever heard of it?”
“Of course I have. It’s the biggest ranch in Tamaulipas. Belongs to some retired Mexican general.”
“Not altogether,” McNelly observed. “Seems like Cordoba and his bandidos have taken it over. Last year or so, they’ve been using it as a way station for rustled cows.”
Laird regarded him with a quizzical look. “I’ll be damned. You mean to cross the border, don’t you?”
McNelly nodded. “That’s the only way to end it. Strike south of the river and catch the whole bunch. Otherwise, we’ll have to chase around after small raiding parties till Hell freezes over.” He paused, thoughtful. “My orders are to get it done fast, so I reckon we’ll take the fight to ‘em for a change.”
“And high time,” Laird added. “Of course, you know you won’t get any help from the army. The brass will start yelling about international boundaries and that’ll put an end to it.”
“I suppose, but it won’t matter one way or the other. I’m still crossing the river.”
Laird chuckled, glancing at Sam Blalock. ‘”Told you he was a fighter, didn’t I? Always could spot ‘em, and still can too.” He turned back to McNelly. “All right, Captain, lay it out for me. We’ll join forces and settle Juan Cordoba’s hash once and for all.”
“No, not this time, Mr. Laird. Like I told you before, it’s Ranger business, and we can’t have civilians mixin’ in. Specially when we’re headed across the border.”
“Now you’re talking nonsense. You’ll need all the help you can get once you hit Las Cuevas.” Laird gestured across the plaza. “There’s fifty vaqueros sittin’ under that tree, every one of ‘em spoiling for a scrap. And I guarantee you, they’ll fight rings around your Ranger boys.”
“Maybe so, but the answer’s the same. You stay and we go, and I won’t argue about it.”
“Oh, it’s orders you’re giving, is it?”
“Call it anything you want, but there’s only one way ... and that’s my way.”
“In a pig’s ass! You’re not the only man that knows his way across the river. Hell, if it’s a race you want, I’ll have my men in Las Cuevas before you even get your toes wet.”
“Don’t push it.” McNelly’s pale eyes bored into him. “You try crossing the river and I’ll guarantee you something, Mr. Laird. You’ll lose more vaqueros than you already have.”
“By the Holy Christ! It’s you that’ll have a fight on your hands. I’ve a thirst for vengeance, McNelly, and I won’t be denied.”
“I don’t take kindly to threats, Mr. Laird.”
“Well, you’re damn sure free about handing them out. Indeed you are ... and I find that very strange ... particularly from a lawman. Seems to me you’re letting pride get the better of your judgment, McNelly. Or haven’t you the stomach to admit it?”
“I’m warning you—”
“Damn your warning!” Laird’s eyes took on a peculiar glitter. “I’ve told you what I intend, and if you mean to stop me then there’s no need waiting till I’ve crossed the river.” He leveled a finger across the plaza. “There’s my vaqueros! If it’s a fight you want, we can get it settled right now.”
Blalock suddenly came to his senses, and stepped between them. “Hank, listen to me! You’re in no shape for a fight, not with him or Cordoba or anyone else.”
“Stay out of it, Sam.”
“For god’s sake, use your—”
“Leave be!” Laird roughly swept him aside, glaring down at the lawman. “Your choice, McNelly. Either we fight together or we fight each other. What’s your pleasure?”
“Your friend’s right,” McNelly told him. “You’d just be a hindrance to us, Laird.”
“God’s teeth! I’ll outlast the bunch of you, and there’s a fact. Now, quit trying to muddy the water and be kind enough to give me your answer. Who’s it to be ... Cordoba or me?”
McNelly walked to his horse, stood for a moment with his hand on the pommel, then stepped into the saddle. His gaze settled on Laird, and their eyes locked in a silent clash of strength. At last, with a look of resignation, McNelly slowly nodded his head.
“Cordoba.”
“Wise decision,” Laird chuckled. “You’ll not regret it.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But let’s get one thing straight, Laird. I’m in command of this outfit, and that goes for everybody, including you. I’ll deputize you ... just to make it official ... but when it comes to giving orders, you’re just another Ranger. Understood?”
“Why, it’s honored I am, Captain McNelly. Honored indeed!”
“Yeah. I can see it written all over you.”
Laird turned his head and winked at Sam Blalock. McNelly muttered something under his breath, then reined his horse away from the veranda.
“We ride in an hour, Mr. Laird. Be ready!”
Chapter 25
A dingy haze lighted the sky at false dawn. With McNelly in the lead, they forded the river some hundred miles upstream from Brownsville. On the opposite shore, the men were dismounted and told to check their weapons. Las Cuevas lay a few miles south of the border, and their attack was to be timed with the moment of brightening at full dawn.
Laird was bone-tired, sore and weary after fourteen straight hours in the saddle. He hadn’t slept since leaving Santa Guerra—yesterday before dawn—and he envied the men around him, begrudged them their youth and endurance. When he dismounted, his legs went rubbery, and he hung on to the saddle horn, stamping his feet to restore the circulation. But he saw McNelly watching him and quickly summoned some inner reserve of energy. He was determined the banty-assed little bastard wouldn’t catch him weakening, not now, with the fight less than an hour away.
All around him there was the creak of saddle leather and the metallic clank of shells being levered into Winchesters. He broke open his shotgun, dropped fresh buckshot loads in both tubes, then snapped it closed and thrust it into the saddle scabbard. Though he had little use for pistols—preferring the advantage of a scattergun—he pulled his Colt and checked the loads, lowering the hammer on an empty chamber. He’d always thought it ironic that it was called a six-shooter, when for safety’s sake everyone carried it with five chambers loaded. After holstering the pistol, he turned, almost certain McNelly was still watching him, and grinned broadly, thumbs hooked in his gun belt. McNelly shook his head and looked away.
Laird watched him move among the Rangers, nodding and offering last-minute words of encouragement. Somewhat ruefully, he had to admit there was much about the man to be admired. Even with the vaqueros, which effectively doubled the strength of the Ranger battalion, they would still be seriously outnumbered. Yet to hear McNelly talk, it was all in a day’s work.
At McNelly’s invitation, Laird had joined him at the head of the column shortly before dark last night. The Ranger commander wasted little time on amenities, launching immediately into a discourse on tactics.
His manner was gruff and straightforward, and the purpose of his lecture was never in doubt. Laird and the vaqueros, in his view, were not professional fighting men. Their previous skirmishes with outlaws, while commendable, hardly qualified them for what lay ahead. A blunt reference to the raid on Santa Guerra stilled Laird’s objections, and afterward, much as McNelly had intended, the matter of rank was no longer in question. It was a novel experience for Laird. He was accustomed to giving orders; whether deckhand or vaquero, he expected to be obeyed instantly. For the next hour he kept his mouth shut, and listened.
According to McNelly, the bandido he’d hung in Brownsville had been a veritable encyclopedia of information. It seemed Juan Cordoba was a man who thought on a grand scale; his cattle-rustling operation far exceeded anything the Texans had imagined. The raiders operated as far west as Nuevo Laredo, covering some five hundred miles along the Rio Grande border; upward of a quarter million cattle were stolen every year, funneled through Las Cuevas to the interior of Mexico and several Latin countries. The magnitude of such an operation required a small army, and Cordoba, with his military background, had organized the raiders into squadrons seldom containing less than fifty men. Although the squadrons were constantly on the move—either raiding Texan ranches or herding cattle deeper into the interior— Las Cuevas was heavily defended at all times. On any given day, no less than four or five squadrons were camped in a perimeter around the main casa, the headquarters. By simple calculation, that meant Las Cuevas could muster at least two hundred bandidos, all of the veteran fighters, in the event of attack. Which placed the odds at roughly two to one ... perhaps worse.
McNelly had paused there, underscoring the point with a grim look. Laird was duly impressed, and despite himself he couldn’t resist the temptation. He’d asked the obvious question.
“You’re a queer one, McNelly. Without my vaqueros, you would’ve been outnumbered four to one! Why in the name of Christ did you make me force them on you?”
“For the best of reasons, Mr. Laird. I can depend on my men to follow orders, and I’ve seen them tested under fire. Your vaqueros are an unknown quantity.”
