Showdown

by Deborah Chester

  “Hair like fire,” said Yotavo. He stroked her hair, then touched her cheek with his finger. Lisa-Marie jerked her head away, and the Indian smiled.

  It was a cruel smile that made Leon scramble to his feet. “She’s mine! Keep away from her.”

  Yotavo looked at him, and his gaze turned cold and hard. He raised the rifle, and Lisa-Marie stepped in front of Leon, much to his surprise. “Please don’t kill him,” she said. “Amigos. We’re amigos to Yotavo.”

  Another Indian appeared without warning from the brush. Leading Leon’s horse, he came up to Yotavo and began talking rapidly in Apache with many impatient gestures.

  Leon touched Lisa-Marie’s arm to get her attention. “What’s the idea?” he said angrily. “I don’t need your help—”

  “Hush!” she whispered, her gaze locked on the two Apaches. “We’ve got to stick together to survive. I’m trying to translate what they’re saying. They’re talking so fast I can’t be sure. It’s been a long time since I heard any Apache, but I think they’re arguing about El Raton and his—”

  “El Raton!” said Leon loudly. He stepped forward. “Amigos,” he said to the Apaches, switching to Spanish. “I am with El Raton. I helped raid the Double T Rancho last night. I am the only warrior to survive the fight. This woman is my captive.”

  Lisa-Marie glared at him, then swung a roundhouse punch that connected with his ear and sent him staggering. “Why, you no-good, yellow-bellied, two-faced snake! Do you think they care a hoot about whether you ride with El Raton or not?”

  Holding his aching ear, Leon glared back at her. “I am trying to make a deal. Now, shut up—”

  “Deal!” She snorted. “Yotavo and his ugly friend here would just as soon scalp you as look at you.”

  “Yeah? Well, whose side are you on, mine or theirs?” he retorted. “I guess you’d rather be a squaw in their camp for the rest of your life.”

  “I guess I wouldn’t,” she shot back. “At least El Raton will ransom me back to Grandpa. That’s if we live long enough to get to his hideout. But you won’t convince them to let us go, not the way you’re going about it.”

  Stung by her derision, Leon said, “And just what would you suggest?”

  “You—”

  Yotavo pushed her to one side, holding her by the back of her neck. She started to struggle, then stood very still, her eyes a bright, frightened blue in the pallor of her face. Leon guessed Yotavo had squeezed the nerves running up the back of her neck, letting her see just a few dizzy spots as a warning to be quiet.

  Yotavo spoke again in heated Apache to his friend, who grunted and shook his head. Leon figured if they continued to argue he might have a chance to…

  Without warning, the second Apache swung his war club. It connected with Leon’s temple, and white rockets exploded in his skull. Through a rush of sickening agony, he felt himself topple, but darkness engulfed him before he hit the ground.

  Back at the Double T, Noel was hauling up the well bucket when an unexpected wave of dizziness caught him. For a moment he fought to hang on to consciousness. The faint spell rolled away, and he found himself on his knees, clinging to the wooden water pail.

  “Noel?” said Trask’s gruff voice. The old man hobbled out from the charred back door of the house and gripped Noel’s shoulder. “You all right?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Noel rubbed his face and climbed unsteadily to his feet. “I guess hunger is getting to me.”

  Trask’s weathered face lightened with relief. “The kitchen didn’t get much of the fire. It’s a mess in there, but we’ve still got tortillas and frijoles. You finish with that water, and I’ll have breakfast going before you know it.”

  He limped away, and Noel leaned against the plastered side of the well. The sun was coming up fast; right now it was tangled in the green branches of the cottonwoods. Soon it would be high and hot. Frank Trask was still hanging on to life by a feeble thread. Cody, looking wan and bruised, was sitting with him now.

  Noel closed his eyes. He was hungry all right, but it wasn’t low blood sugar that had nearly made him faint. It was Leon. He couldn’t put a precise finger on the certainty growing inside him, but he suspected Leon was either injured or dead.

  Maybe Lisa-Marie had extricated herself from his clutches. Or maybe she was in even greater danger than before.

  Rubbing his face again and feeling the grit of beard stubble on his jaw, Noel looked at the corral, where their lone horse stood munching on the oats Trask had put in the trough a few minutes ago. Trask was too old. Cody was still not up to par. Frank couldn’t be left alone. The only one for the job was Noel.

  He started for the corral, but before he’d taken two steps, a shot rang out.

  Noel snatched up his Winchester, and Cody came running from the barn with the other rifle. By the time Trask had emerged from the house, Cody was halfway up the wooden windmill tower. He stared a long moment, then waved his rifle and let out a loud yell.

  “Grandpa! It’s Skeet, and he’s bringing in the horses.”

  Trask glanced at Noel. “Go open the gate of the big corral, then get out of the way while he drives ’em in.”

  Noel obeyed. The horses came streaming in, about a dozen or so, shaking their manes and snorting. They looked as though their night on the range had done them good. Most of them went straight for the round water trough, crowding there and snapping at each other with big, yellowed teeth.

  The man driving them rode into the corral, and Noel closed the gate. By the time he had it latched, the rider had stepped down from his saddle. He turned and shot Noel a measuring glance from beneath the dip of his greasy hat brim.

  “Howdy,” he said. His voice was low, soft, and terse.

  Noel was picking up the pattern of behavior expected in this country. Without hesitation he stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

  “Name’s Skeet Dodd,” said the cowboy. His handshake was quick and hard.

  Cody came rushing up to the corral fence with a grin splitting his face. Skeet glanced his way. “Saw the fire last night. Couldn’t get here any faster.”

  “You sure are a sight for sore eyes,” said Cody with enthusiasm. “We figure it was some of El Raton’s bunch. He picked a good time to strike, with everybody gone. This here’s Noel—”

  “We met,” said Skeet. “Where’s Mr. Trask?”

  “At the house, fixing breakfast. Jose’s dead. We buried him at sunrise. Well, I—I better get back to the barn. Uncle Frank’s hurt awful bad.”

  Cody rushed off. Skeet and Noel went through the gate together. While Noel was shutting it, Skeet resettled his hat on his head. He was as lean as leather and about Noel’s age. His gunbelt hung low on a pair of slim hips, and he walked with a slow, bow1egged swagger, making soft jingles of his spur rowels with every step.

  “Boy’s got a hell of a black eye,” he said.

  “That’s better than being shot,” said Noel.

  Skeet sent him a sharp glance. “Frank shot?”

  “Through the lung. And Cody’s sister has been carried off.”

  Skeet stopped dead. “The hell she has! Now, who—” He cut himself off, and his mouth set hard and tight. His stride lengthened, and the spurs jingled with fresh purpose. “Better get on the trail before the wind comes up and starts blowin’ out the tracks.”

  “You’ve ridden all night.” said Noel as they rounded the house and entered the back courtyard. “You’ll be too tired to go out again—”

  Skeet tugged his hat brim lower. “Nope. Mornin’, Mr. Trask. I brought in the horses. Sorry I wasn’t here to help.”

  “We’re all sorry,” said Trask, his voice weary. He handed over mugs of steaming coffee to each of them.” Did Noel tell you what happened?”

  “Enough. Soon as I get something between my belly and my backbone, I’ll saddle a fresh mount and ride.”

  Trask merely nodded. “We never should have let her come home. This is no place for a woman. It never was. I’ll get the beans.”
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  Noel sniffed his coffee with reluctance. It smelled strong enough to knock a man over. He sipped and grimaced at the bitter taste. When he glanced up, he found Skeet grinning at him.

  “Stout enough to float a rifle cartridge,” said Skeet. “Mighty fine.”

  Noel hated coffee. It made him think of his friend Trojan, who gulped the stuff constantly. Would he ever see the big, hairy redhead again?

  The way things were going, it didn’t look like it.

  Fifteen minutes later, he, Skeet, and Cody mounted and rode out, heading for the low smudge of hills across the Mexican border where El Raton liked to keep his hideout this time of year. Skeet proved to be a competent tracker, silent and intent as he picked up the trail of Leon’s horse.

  “Got a nicked shoe on the left foreleg.”

  Cody’s young face looked drawn and serious beneath the bruises. “We know where to find El Raton. Why don’t we ride straight there? This will take too long.”

  Skeet rolled a plug of snuff to the other side of his jaw and spat a long stream of black tobacco juice. “Hurryin’ ain’t always the quickest way. We only think these were Raton’s boys. Plenty of other Mexicans runnin’ raids through this country.”

  Cody glanced at Noel, hesitated, then said, “They weren’t Don Emilio’s vaqueros, if that’s what you’re getting at. He and Grandpa don’t get along too well, but he wouldn’t burn us out.”

  “Son, that man’s crookeder than a snattlerake, and don’t you forget it.” Skeet spat again. “The only good Mexican is a dead one.”

  The trail went straight across the mesquite flat, easy to follow. Leon had made no attempt to conceal his tracks. His direction aimed southwest, and Skeet and Cody debated over whether he was intending to go all the way to the Animas.

  The sun climbed until it blazed mercilessly and cast a shimmering heat haze over mirages of water. The country grew more barren. Greasewood was about the only vegetation in sight. Their horses kicked up a choking dust that made Noel think with longing about the water sloshing in his canteens.

  Skeet drew rein abruptly, his hand in the air. “Stop and stay put,” he said.

  He dismounted before either Noel or Cody could ask questions. In silence they watched him walk back and forth, studying the confused mill of tracks.

  Cody unstrapped his canteen from the saddle horn and took a long swig before handing it to Noel.

  ‘Thanks.” The tepid water tasted like galvanized metal, but it refreshed him nonetheless. He restricted himself to a few short sips, and handed the canteen back. “What’s he looking for? The tracks keep going over there.”

  Skeet crouched by a set of footprints and skimmed his fingertips along them. Without answering Noel, Cody dismounted and walked over to Skeet.

  “Lisa-Marie tried something, didn’t she?”

  Skeet grunted and walked off into the brush. He cast around for several minutes, then came back. A pink hair ribbon fluttered from his fingers.

  Cody snatched it from him. “That’s hers! Did she get away from him?”

  “The horse,” said Noel, “still went south. She wouldn’t ride that way, unless she was confused about the direction.”

  Both men shot him a scornful look.

  “Lisa-Marie knows this country,” said Cody. “She wouldn’t get lost.”

  Skeet wandered off again. This time, when he returned, his face looked grim. “The horse went south, then it doubled back. Look here.”

  Cody followed him, and Noel dismounted to do the same. About ten yards or so from where they left their horses, they found a small clearing in the greasewood where the dirt was scuffed and gouged. The tracks were confused and indistinct. Skeet pointed to a set of blurred ones, almost indistinguishable.

  Cody turned pale. “Unshod ponies means ’paches! How many?”

  “Just one, I think. Maybe two, but they didn’t stay together.” Skeet took off his hat to wipe out the inside. His forehead had a pronounced tan line about halfway up from his brows—dark and weathered below, pale up toward his hairline.

  “You think he caught them?” asked Cody anxiously.

  “Not much of a fight either,” said Skeet, putting on his hat again. “No spent cartridge shells. No blood.”

  Cody turned away and stared blindly in the direction of the ranch. “If—if he was going to scalp them, he’d have done it already. Wouldn’t he?”

  “Maybe. They take prisoners sometimes.”

  “Maybe Leon took the Apache prisoner,” said Noel. He knew his duplicate had advantages these men knew nothing about. It would be difficult if not impossible to sneak up unawares on Leon. It would be hard to beat him in a fight.

  Skeet looked at him with eyes like stone. “You loco or just gone from sunstroke?”

  Noel’s temper flared. “Look, I happen to know Leon better than either of you—”

  “Grandpa said you two are the spitting image of each other,” broke in Cody. “Are you twins?”

  Noel scowled. “Yes. That’s—”

  “Just like me and Lisa-Marie! Only we aren’t identical. Do you know what he’s thinking sometimes? Do you—”

  Skeet drew his pistol and aimed it at Noel. “Shut up, Cody.”

  Noel’s gut tightened. He felt cotton-mouthed and exasperated at having to explain himself all over again. “There’s no need for the gun.”

  “I’ll judge. If you’re friends with the Comancheros, you turned up awful coincidental like.”

  “No, he didn’t!” said Cody, stepping between Skeet and Noel. Swiftly he did the explaining, finishing with, “Now, he’s been good help when we needed it most. Back off, Skeet, and put your gun away. We can’t help Lisa-Marie if we keep wasting time like this.”

  Skeet didn’t look convinced, but he holstered his gun. Noel eased out the breath he’d been holding.

  “Thanks, kid,” Noel said, keeping his gaze on Skeet. “Now, would you please explain why you think the Indian has them instead of the other way around?”

  In silence Skeet led him to where the horse tracks headed east. Two sets of footprints followed the hoofprints. Skeet held up two fingers in a V. “White men walk this way. Heels in, toes out. Indian footprints go parallel. Now look at that track right there and tell me that ain’t a woman’s.”

  The print was small and narrow. Noel frowned at it, remembering his brief dizzy spell early this morning. That must have been when the Indian jumped Leon.

  “He’s got ’em tied up and walking,” said Skeet “He’ll walk ’em all day, and pretty soon he’ll pull the shoes on that horse. Then he’ll cover his trail. If he goes up into the rocks, we’ll never find them.”

  “We’ve got to,” said Cody angrily. “I’m not leaving Lisa-Marie in the hands of a bunch of dirty, no-good ’paches. Let’s ride!”

  They swung into their saddles, the leather seats scorching hot with reflected heat. Gathering his reins, Noel looked south and saw an approaching cloud of dust. He pointed.

  “More trouble?” he asked.

  “Oh, damnation!”said Cody. “That much dust means a lot of riders. If it’s soldiers, Noel, don’t you dare say one word about my sister or the ’paches.”

  Noel blinked in surprise. “But why not? Surely we could use the help.”

  “No!”

  Skeet turned on him fiercely. “Soldiers get wind of captives and they blunder in. The captives end up dead, every time.”

  “But—”

  “We can get her back,” said Cody breathlessly, his freckles standing out. “But it takes ransom—trading ponies or cattle in exchange. Soldiers will attack, and the Indians will kill her.”

  “I understand,” said Noel.

  Cody shot him a grateful look, but Skeet scowled.

  “You’d better,” he said in a low voice of warning. “Or you won’t see another sunrise.”

  “Skeet!” said Cody. “He said he understood.”

  Skeet spat tobacco. “Said it. Didn’t say he’d be quiet. All we need is some tenderfoot fr
om back East who thinks he knows how to run everybody’s business—”

  “I give you my word,” snapped Noel.

  Skeet stared at him a long time. Noel met his gaze angrily, not flinching, not evading.

  “Don’t push him, Skeet,” said Cody.

  “He’s pushing me,” said Skeet, but he dropped the staring match and wheeled his horse around to face the riders.

  Chapter 5

  The argument proved unnecessary, for the riders turned out to be twenty or so vaqueros in big sombreros, Mexican cowboys in short jackets and dark mustaches, their eyes like black flint, their faces hostile.

  In the lead rode a broad-shouldered man with keen hazel eyes beneath drooping lids, and an aristocratic European face. Thick brown hair curled beneath his flat-crowned hat. Embossed silver decorated his saddle and bridle, flashing in the sun. Long leather tapederos covered his stirrups, the tips almost brushing the ground. Silver conchas flashed from them as well, twinkling just above the scruffy broomweed as he reined in his prancing black stallion with a flourish and a wave of his quirt.

  “Greetings, senors,” he said cheerfully. His voice was like cream, warm and rich with the flavor of a Mexican accent. He swept Noel and Skeet with a single glance, and focused his gaze on the boy. “Cody, how is your grandfather? One of my men came in last night, telling of a fire in your direction. I hope it was not your ranch, but this morning I could not enjoy the singing of the birds in my garden because of worry, and so I have come to see if there is help I can give.”

  “Howdy, Don Emilio,” said Cody. “It was our ranch. Raton’s bunch tried to burn us out.”

  “That diablo!” said Don Emilio, but mildly. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Cody squinted, and the harsh sunlight picked out the strain in his young face. “Yes, sir. My uncle got shot bad. We don’t know if he’ll make it. They carried off my sister—”

  A stir went through the vaqueros. Don Emilio dropped his urbane mask. His gaze grew sharp and intent. “This is very bad,” he said. “You will please explain to me all that has happened.”

  “While we’re jawin’,” broke in Skeet impatiently, “that Apache is gettin’ farther off.”