Lords of the Land

by Braun, Matt;

  “You’re saying they might spoil your plans somehow ... zig when you’ve told them to zag ... is that it?”

  “Our single advantage—in fact, our one hope to come out of this alive!—is the element of surprise. You and your vaqueros jeopardize that advantage, Mr. Laird. Why? Because you’re accustomed to fighting as individuals, not as a unit. In any military engagement that’s a dangerous flaw ... perhaps fatal.”

  “You’re worried, then, that we’ll not follow orders?”

  “Precisely.”

  “You seem to forget that we want Cordoba more than you do. It’s personal with us—we’ve got the graves to prove it— for you, it’s simply another job.”

  “You just made my point, Mr. Laird. Emotion has no place on a battlefield. It gets the wrong men killed.”

  “Well, you can belay your fears, Captain McNelly. I’ll follow your orders down to the letter—and by the Sweet Jesus! —the same goes for my vaqueros. Maybe their blood’s a little hot, but they’ll not be losing their heads. You’ve my word on it.”

  “I pray you’re right, Mr. Laird. You see, we’re not likely to have such an opportunity again.”

  “Oh, how so?”

  “Because Juan Cordoba’s no fool. Once he knows we’re willing to cross the border, he’ll run all the way to Mexico City. So unless we kill him this time out, we probably never will.”

  “Aye, you’re right. We’ve only the one chance, and damn little room for error.” Laird hesitated, gave him a quizzical look. “That’s why you’ve been lecturing me the past hour, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t lecture, Mr. Laird. I’m a lawman, not a teacher. All I’ve done is explain how we might kill a man ... in the most expedient manner.”

  Watching him now, Laird was reminded that a simple statement of fact had revealed much about the Ranger commander. However cold and impersonal, he was the right man for the job. Not that they would ever be friends, but under the circumstances it was possible to overlook his abrasive manner. McNelly was as deadly as the outlaws he hunted—a mankiller—the very attribute needed if ever law was to be brought to the border. Laird found it a tantalizing thought: peace on the Rio Grande. Almost enough, he told himself, almost but not quite. Juan Cordoba’s head would give him true peace.

  A flicker of movement caught Laird’s eye. Alerted, he saw a Ranger ghosting through the trees, and suddenly realized McNelly had sent a man ahead to scout Las Cuevas. Clearly he was more exhausted than he’d thought. He hadn’t seen the man leave the column! In fact, it hadn’t even occurred to him to scout the enemy camp. He cursed himself for a smug fool, and wondered that he’d ever considered taking the field against Cordoba. Left to his own devices, he would have botched it! Probably got himself and a bunch of vaqueros killed, and in the end, accomplished nothing. Which was essentially the message McNelly had delivered last night.

  Still mumbling to himself, Laird walked forward to where McNelly and the scout were squatted down on the riverbank. In the soft earth, the scout had sketched a diagram of Las Cuevas, and McNelly was studying it intently. As Laird halted, he nodded, apparently having arrived at a decision, and glanced up.

  “Laird, have a look.” McNelly poked at the diagram with a stick. “Here we are. There’s the road a couple of hundred yards upstream. Then you follow the road about two miles and there’s Las Cuevas.” The stick jabbed at symbols scratched in the dirt. “Now, this square is the main house, and these X’s are outbuildings, probably used to quarter Cordoba’s regular hands. This wavy line, over to the west, is a creek, and these circles are bandido camps.” He smiled, tapped a pair of circles along the wavy line. “That’s where we got lucky. There’s only two squadrons camped on the creek. Allowing for the men in these outbuildings, I figure their forces at about a hundred and fifty, maybe a few more. Couldn’t ask for better odds than that, could you?”

  “Aye,” Laird agreed, “it’s certainly better than we expected. As you’ve said, though, they’re fighters. What happens when we stir up the hornet’s nest?”

  “All depends,” McNelly observed. “If they hold their ground, then we hit and run. Kill as many as we can and ride like hell. On the other hand, if me and my boys scatter this bunch along the creek, then we’ll stick around and do the job proper.”

  “Well, that’s splendid, except for one thing. You haven’t yet mentioned my vaqueros.”

  “I thought you told me you wanted Cordoba?”

  “Aye, we do indeed. But I don’t take your meaning.”

  “Cordoba will be in the main house.”

  “I’ve no doubt he will. So—”

  “So,” McNelly informed him, “while me and my boys handle the creek, you and your vaqueros can have General Cordoba all to yourselves.”

  “Ah, McNelly!” Laird beamed. “You’re a lovely man, that you are. By the Jesus, I could almost kiss you!”

  “Spare me the pleasure, Mr. Laird. It’s not sentiment, it’s just good tactics. Now, suppose you pay attention, and I’ll explain what I have in mind.”

  Laird clapped him across the shoulder and knelt down in the dirt. McNelly suppressed a smile, exchanging a look with his scout, and then directed their attention to the diagram.

  Chapter 26

  A faint blush of dawn lighted the sky. With the Rangers in the lead, their horses held to a walk, the column advanced quietly along the road. The men were grim-eyed, staring straight ahead, their features cold and hard in the sallow overcast. Abruptly, perhaps a hundred yards in the distance, the Las Cuevas compound came into view. The road opened onto the main casa, and beyond that several outbuildings were scattered in random order. At the front of the column, McNelly stood up in his stirrups, looked back down the road, and waved.

  Trailing the Rangers by several yards, Laird acknowledged the signal and halted his vaqueros with an upraised palm. At his side, Ramon Morado motioned the vaqueros off the road, and within moments they were screened from sight by scrub undergrowth. Then, as prearranged, Laird removed his hat and waved.

  McNelly instantly spurred his horse. Behind him, the Rangers gigged their own mounts, and the column thundered toward Las Cuevas. As they neared the compound, each man pulled his pistol; their rifles were held in reserve, to be used in the event of dismounted fighting. If all went according to plan, however, there would be no need for rifles. McNelly was gambling that surprise, combined with a lightning-quick mounted assault, would put a speedy end to the morning’s work.

  A man stepped from one of the outbuildings, water bucket in hand, as the Rangers swept past the main house. His mouth popped open and he stood transfixed, too astonished to raise a cry of warning. Since he was unarmed, the Rangers ignored him, and he watched as they skirted east of the compound. The steady drumbeat of hooves split the dawn stillness, and many of the bandidos camped on the creek were awakened. But they were momentarily confused, unable to identify the source of the sound, for the riders were concealed behind the outbuildings. It was their uncertainty that gave McNelly and his Rangers the element of surprise.

  Upon clearing the compound, McNelly wheeled westward, signaling a change in formation. Still at a gallop, the Rangers maneuvered from column of twos, splitting left and right until they came on line. With McNelly in the center—twenty Rangers abreast of him on either side—they pounded toward the creek. The distance was less than fifty yards, covered in a matter of seconds, and the bandidos were caught in their bedrolls. McNelly fired the first shot, killing a man who stumbled from his blanket, barefooted and wild-eyed, desperately working the lever on an old Winchester. Then the Rangers cut loose, firing at point-blank range as their charge carried them through the camps of both squadrons. For a moment, with nearly thirty men killed and not a shot fired in return, it almost became a rout. But the bandidos were fighters, and while some ran, the majority held their ground. Frantically, shouting and cursing, they threw aside their bedrolls and armed themsel
ves.

  Yet despite their determination, there was no time for an organized defense. At the edge of the creek, McNelly wheeled his Rangers and charged back into the camp. The bandidos rose to meet them, and almost instantly, the gunfire became general. It was every man for himself.

  Within moments of the attack, McNelly’s tactical genius became apparent to Laird. Hidden in the chaparral beside the road, he had a clear view of the compound. As the volume of gunfire intensified on the creek, men began streaming out of the main house and the outbuildings. Though hastily dressed, they were all armed, and not one so much as glanced in Laird’s direction. Their attention centered on the creek, and, to a man, they hurried to the aid of their companeros.

  Laird waited, curbing his impatience. The urge to join the fight was almost more than he could withstand. Yet McNelly’s orders had been explicit, based on the sequence of events that were now unfolding. Laird was to delay until the outbuildings had emptied and the Las Curevas regulars were exposed on the open ground between the creek and the compound. Then he was to attack from the rear, closing the trap. With the Rangers on the front and the vaqueros to the rear, the forces of Las Cuevas could be driven together in the open and annihilated.

  Yet, ironically enough, it was General Juan Cordoba himself who triggered Laird’s attack. His gaze fixed on the compound, Laird saw a man, dressed in the gaudy uniform of a Mexican officer, emerge from the main casa. Brandishing a silver-plated pistol in either hand, the man was joined by a small contingent who had gathered outside the house. Together, they hurried toward the rear of the compound.

  To Laird, watching spellbound, there could be no doubt. It was Juan Cordoba and his personal bodyguards! Clearly the men would have delayed for no one except the generalissimo himself. Laird twisted around in his saddle, grinning wolfishly at Ramon Morado. Then he motioned the vaqueros onward, spurring his horse, voice raised in a jubilant cry.

  “Anda, hombres! Muerto a Cordoba! Anda!”

  The vaqueros responded with a savage chorus, yipping and shouting as they crashed their horses out of the brush. With Laird in the lead, and Ramon trailing him, they took off down the road at a full gallop. Moments later, surging around the main casa, they broke ranks and streamed past the outbuildings. Laird cleared the compound first, followed closely by Ramon and several vaqueros. Ahead, on the open ground, he saw a large body of men running toward the creek. Vaguely, he sensed a lessening in the tempo of gunfire from the creek; for a fleeting instant, he wondered if the Rangers were holding their own. Then he spotted the gaudy uniform—Cordoba and his bodyguards—rushing to catch up but still separated from the main body by a good thirty yards. All thought of McNelly and the Rangers vanished. Laird waved the vaqueros onward to the creek, then turned his horse on a direct line for Cordoba. He wrapped the reins around the saddlehorn and cocked both hammers on his shotgun. Leaning into the wind, he brought the shotgun to his shoulder and charged.

  Within the same split second, Cordoba and his men turned, alerted by the drumbeat of hooves. At the general’s side was Roberto Morado; thunderstruck, his jaw agape, he stared as Laird bore down on them. Then he stiffened, stared harder, saw his father directly behind Laird, closing fast. Before he could react, Cordoba raised both pistols and fired. Laird’s horse broke stride, slowed by the impact of a heavy slug, then suddenly went down beneath him. But as he tumbled headlong from the saddle, Laird instinctively triggered the shotgun. A load of buckshot fanned through the little cluster of men, killing two of them instantly. Roberto took a ball in the shoulder and spun sideways, struggling to keep his feet. Juan Cordoba dropped one of his pistols, clutching at his groin, and staggered forward in a drunken dance. The last man, miraculously unwounded, drew a bead on Laird, who lay sprawled on the ground not ten feet away.

  In that final instant, Roberto Morado acted unwittingly. A dim spark of loyalty flared, and without thought, he trained his pistol on the man who was about to kill the patron. Stunned, rolling awkwardly to one knee, Laird saw it all in a glimpse. A bandido, staring down the sights of a carbine, and to the rear, Roberto extending his pistol at arm’s length. To the boy’s father, however, the deadly tableau had an altogether different meaning. Skidding to a halt behind Laird’s fallen mount, Ramon saw two men—one of them his son— aiming in the direction of the patron. His choice was simple. Father and son fired simultaneously, and Ramon’s pistol was centered on the boy’s chest.

  The bandido slumped forward, blood staining the back of his shirt, and discharged his carbine into the ground. Behind him, Roberto stood perfectly still, a great splotch of red covering his breastbone. Slowly, like a felled tree, his legs collapsed and he toppled facedown in the dirt.

  The gunfire seemed to jolt Juan Cordoba out of his daze. Bent double at the waist, still clutching his groin, he raised his head and fastened a murderous glare on Laird. In his resplendent jacket, hastily thrown on over his nightshirt, the general made a grotesque figure. But there was nothing comic about the look in his eyes, nor was his courage in question. He was dying, yet he fully intended to take Laird with him. The two men scowled at each other, Laird on his knees, Cordoba folded in a low bow, so close they could have touched. Then, with an expression of profound concentration, Cordoba slowly lifted his pistol.

  Laird jammed the shotgun upward into his chest and pulled the trigger. The blast shredded Cordoba with a fist-sized pattern of lead, and he hurtled backward from the impact. His bare feet flapped the air, and, like some garishly costumed scarecrow, he settled to the earth in a puddle of blood. A moment passed while Laird stared down on the body, his nostrils assailed by the stench of burnt flesh and bowels voided in death. He gagged, choking back the taste of vomit, then strong hands went under his arms, lifted him to his feet. He turned, found himself mirrored in the sorrowful gaze of Ramon Morado.

  “Como esta, Patron? Are you hurt?”

  A sudden barrage of gunfire cut short Laird’s reply. Startled, he and Ramon whirled toward the creek, prepared to join the larger fight. But they were too late, mere spectators to the final onslaught. As they watched, their vaqueros struck the Las Cuevas regulars from the rear. Through a pall of dust and gunsmoke, there were screams of men caught under trampling hooves and the murderous crack of pistols at close range. From the opposite direction, McNelly and his Rangers drove the bandidos away from the creek, forcing them to retreat into the path of their fleeing comrades. When the two groups came together, trapped in a last-ditch stand, the open ground became a charnel house. The vaqueros, joined in slaughter with the Rangers, took no mercy. Bandidos who attempted to surrender were simply gunned down on the spot.

  McNelly, who was in the very thick of the fight, seemed indestructible, heedless of personal risk. He urged the attackers onward, and though their own losses were heavy, they pressed the bandidos relentlessly. The gunfire swelled in pitch, sustained for several seconds at a deafening level, then abruptly ended. As the smoke drifted away, it became apparent that the defenders of Las Cuevas were finished. The ground was littered with bodies, not a man left standing, the dead and the dying sprawled together in a welter of blood. For a moment there was absolute silence, vaqueros and Rangers alike staring dull-eyed at the carnage. Then a bandido groaned and McNelly rapped out a sharp command. Several Rangers dismounted and walked through the tangle of bodies, dispatching the wounded with deliberate shots to the head. The reports sounded flat, somehow muffled, but final. Afterward, there were no moans, the stillness was complete.

  From a distance, his features grim, Laird watched, waiting for it to end. With the last shot he felt somehow freed, all debts settled. Yet there was no personal joy, no sense of triumph, in his vindication. All the killing had left him drained, curiously saddened, and for a moment he pondered the reason. Then it flooded over him, the vivid image of a boy who had saved his life ... lying dead now ... struck down by ...

  “Ramon.” Laird turned to his old friend. “About your hijo ... Roberto.�
��

  “Put it from your mind, Patron. I killed the traidor with my own hand, and for that I have no regrets. He deserved to die.”

  “No, you don’t understand—”

  “Si Patron, I do understand. He was about to kill you! I saw it all, and I thank the Virgin I was in time.”

  Laird realized then it was hopeless. To blurt out the truth would destroy whatever peace of mind remained for Ramon Morado. Bad enough that he must live with the knowledge that he had killed his own son. Were he to be told it was a mistake ... that he’d killed the boy in error ... there would be no redemption for him as long as he lived. He would crucify himself, go early to his grave with the guilt of what he’d done. Better to leave it alone ... bury the dead ... and the deed.

  “If it is your wish, compadre, we will bury him on Santa Guerra. Whatever else he was, he was a Morado ... your son.”

  “Gracias, Patron, but he long ago ceased to be my hijo. We will bury him here, with the bandidos and his general. It is where he belongs.”

  Laird nodded, reluctant to press the matter further. There was an awkward silence, with Ramon staring at his son’s body, dispassionate and cold-eyed yet unable to hide his grief. Laird touched his shoulder, about to speak, when the moment was interrupted by hoofbeats. He turned as

  McNelly reined to a halt and stepped down out of the saddle.

  “Well done, Mr. Laird! We wiped the bastards out to a man.”

  “Aye, we were detained but we saw it.”

  McNelly smiled, indicated the uniformed corpse. “Cordoba?” Laird merely nodded, and he went on. “I sort of figured you’d find him, one way or another. Guess your thirst for vengeance got a dipperful and then some, hmm?”

  Ramon lowered his head, suddenly tight-lipped, and Laird glanced at him with a grave expression. McNelly saw the look, caught an undercurrent of something unspoken, and studied them a moment. Then his gaze settled on Laird.