Return to Vengeance Creek

by Robert J. Randisi

  “This way,” the girl said, finally lowering the gun. “Please hurry!”

  She led him to the shack she had come out of. He heard the man behind him pick up his guns and follow.

  As he entered the building, he saw a boy about fifteen years old, bleeding from what looked like a belly wound. He was lying on his back on a cot, and somebody had made an attempt to bandage him.

  “Candy did this?” James asked.

  “Yes,” the girl said. “He rode in, said he wanted to trade horses. We negotiated some money, also, so he went to look at what we had in the corral. When he saw them he got angry, pulled his gun. They weren’t worth tradin’ for, he said.”

  “He thought we had other horse somewhere else,” the man said, taking up the story. “We told him we didn’t, but he thought we were lying. He . . . he shot my son, to make a point.”

  James got down on his knees next to the boy’s cot. His face was pale and sweaty, his eyes shiny.

  “Then what happened?”

  “He finally believed us,” the girl said, “and he rode on.”

  James wondered why, if Candy shot the boy, he didn’t shoot them, as well. He moved the boy’s shirt, and the makeshift bandage, to examine the wound. He had lied to them. He’d never treated Thomas for a gunshot, but he had watched his father do it.

  The wound wasn’t as bad as he first thought. The bullet hadn’t hit him in the belly, but the side. Still, the bullet would have to come out.

  “How is he?” the father asked.

  “Not as bad as he looks,” James said, “but the bullet has to come out.” He glanced at them over his shoulder. “Has either of you ever done it? Removed a bullet?”

  “No,” the man said.

  “Can you do it?” the girl asked. “Can you save him?”

  “Isn’t there anyone else here?” he asked. “In the other buildings.”

  “Nobody,” the man said. “You’ll have to do it.”

  “Look,” James said, sticking to his lie, “I’ve only done it a couple of times—”

  The man raised his rifle and pointed it at James again. From the look on his face, he meant business. The girl was another story. She didn’t like the situation, at all.

  “So you’ll do it one more time,” he said. “But remember, if he dies, you die.”

  “Pa!” the girl said. “That’s not fair.”

  “It’s not fair that your brother got shot,” the father said. “That man came here because this man is chasin’ him. I blame them both.”

  James thought the girl was right. That wasn’t fair, not at all.

  THIRTY

  James asked the girl if she could get him water and clean bandages. She said she could.

  “And a fire?” he asked.

  “What for?” the man said.

  James took out his Bowie knife. “I need this to be held in a fire before I can use it to dig out the bullet.”

  “That’ll kill him!”

  “You got something smaller?” James asked.

  The man shook his head.

  “I’ll get it hot,” the girl said, taking the knife.

  “I’m gonna need your help,” James told the man.

  “For what?”

  “I’m gonna need you to hold him still while I dig for the bullet.”

  The man seemed conflicted. If he did that, who would hold the rifle on James?

  “Come on!” James snapped. “Put the rifle down. I’m not goin’ anywhere!”

  With great reluctance the man put the rifle aside and went to the cot.

  “Get on the other side,” James said. “I need you to talk to him, keep him calm, and then hold him down while I get the bullet out.”

  “Are you sure you can do that?” the man asked.

  “No, I’m not,” James said, “but you didn’t ask me that before.”

  The girl returned holding a basin of water, some bandages, and the knife.

  “Is this okay?”

  She handed James the knife, which was hot.

  “It’ll have to be.”

  He tore the boy’s shirt away and discarded the bandage she’d applied.

  “What should I do?” she asked.

  “Just squat down beside me and hold the basin and the bandages.”

  She did as he asked, careful not to spill the water. James washed his hands in the basin, finding the water to be as hot as the knife. There had to be a stove or a campfire someplace.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll need to clean away some of the blood so I can see what I’m doing.”

  He soaked one cloth she gave him and used it to clean the wound. Once he had a good view of the entry hole, he was able to dig for the bullet. Luckily, it wasn’t very deep. He had the girl continue to clean blood from the wound, and the father hold the boy down so he couldn’t move around too much. Finally, he had the bullet and dropped it into the pan of water.

  “Now we’ve got to get this bandaged so the bleedin’ stops,” he said.

  Using the makeshift bandages Glory had given him, he bandaged the boy nice and tight, hoping the bandage would stem the red tide.

  “There,” James said, standing up, “that should do it.”

  “Is he gonna be all right?” Glory asked.

  “I hope so,” James said.

  The father remained on his knees next to his son. At least he wasn’t picking up the rifle again.

  “Can I get some clean water to wash my hands with?” James asked.

  “Oh, I’ll get some more from the pump,” Glory offered.

  “Never mind,” James said. “Just show me where the pump is.”

  “It’s out back,” she said. “I’ll take you.”

  She grabbed the basin and led the way. As they went out the back door, she dumped the bloody water, then led him to the pump.

  “Thanks,” James said. He pumped some clear water and cleaned the blood from his hands. She handed him a cloth to dry with, then rinsed out the basin.

  “Is your father gonna shoot me with his rifle?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I hope not.”

  The sun shone off her golden hair, and he could see she was barely eighteen.

  “How old is your brother?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Is it just you, your brother and father here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “We found this place a couple of months ago after we lost our ranch. All we had were those three horses in the corral.”

  “So you’re stayin’ here?”

  “For now.”

  “What about the owners?”

  “We never saw any owners.”

  If there were owners and they returned, this family would be considered squatters.

  “Did Candy get anythin’ from you?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “He took some food,” she said. “And he . . . touched me.”

  “Touched you?”

  “He grabbed me, ran his hands over . . . that was when he shot Eddie. He tried to make Candy let me go.”

  “I thought it was when he saw the horses.”

  “He was mad about the horses,” she said, “and then he grabbed me and . . . said he was gonna get somethin’ out of us. Eddie ran at him, even though Pa tried to stop him. So that man . . . Candy . . . shot him.”

  “Then what?’

  “Then he took some food and lit out.”

  “I’m wonderin’ . . .” James said.

  “What?” she asked, eyes all wide.

  “I’m wonderin’ why he didn’t kill you all.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but gee, I’m glad he didn’t.”

  “Let’s go back inside before your Pa comes lookin’ for me with his rifle again.”

  They went back into the house, where her father was still hovering over his son.

  “Eddie was askin’ about you,” her father said.

  “I’m here, Eddie,” she said, crouching down next to him.

  “Am I—am I ok
ay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, you are, brother,” Glory said. “This man took the bullet out and patched you up.”

  “Thanks, mister.”

  “Sure thing,” James said. He looked at their father. “Okay if I take my guns and go? I’ve got to catch up to Candy.”

  “You catch up to him,” the man said, “and you kill him for me, mister. You put a bullet in him and tell him it’s from Josh Kramer.”

  “And Eddie,” Glory said.

  “I’ll tell him,” James promised, picking up his gun.

  He had slid his rifle back into its scabbard and was about to mount his horse when Glory came running out.

  “You never told me your name?” she complained.

  “It’s James,” he said, “Deputy James Shaye.”

  “Well, Deputy James,” she said, “are you sure you won’t stay a bit. I’m gonna make some stew for Eddie, and I’m a pretty fair cook.”

  “It sounds real good, Glory,” he said, “but I really have to try and catch up to Candy.”

  “He’s a real mean man, James,” she said. “Are you sure you can handle him?”

  “I’ll handle him,” James said, “don’t worry about that. Say, how far am I from Tubac?”

  “It’s about twenty miles,” she said. “You think he was headed there? It’s pretty deserted.”

  “He’s probably headed to Old Mexico,” James said, “but I’ll check Tubac, just to be sure.”

  Abruptly, she rushed to him and gave him a big hug, which embarrassed him.

  “Stop by on your way back,” she said. “Will you?”

  “Okay, Glory,” he said, mounting up, “I’ll stop by on my way back.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  He made Tubac as it was getting dark.

  As Glory had told him, the town looked completely deserted. But he saw smoke coming from the chimney of one building and, as he approached it, he smelled something cooking.

  He reined in his horse in front of the building, which appeared to be a cantina. Mounting the boardwalk, he paused to look around, didn’t see any other horses or people, then went inside.

  There was a fat Mexican behind the bar, and a pretty, dark-haired woman in her forties, wearing an apron and a peasant blouse. She looked Mexican, but somehow James didn’t think she was.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Buenos Dias,” she greeted. “We didn’t expect anyone to be ridin’ in this late.”

  “I smelled somethin’ cookin’.”

  She smiled. “There’s always somethin’ cookin’, friend. Have a seat if you’re hungry.” When she spoke, it became obvious she wasn’t Mexican.

  “I am, ma’am,” he said, “very hungry. But I need to know if anyone else has ridden into town today.”

  She squinted at his chest. “Seems to me I’ve seen one of those before.”

  “My badge?” he said. “When?”

  “Seems like it was two days ago, another fella rode through here and stopped for a meal.”

  “A badge exactly like this one?”

  She leaned in. “I think so.”

  “Did he say his name?”

  “He did,” she answered, “but I don’t remember—was it Thomas?”

  “Thomas Shaye?”

  “That was him!”

  “He’s my brother,” James said. “I’m James.”

  “Well,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “it seems like good looks run in the family.”

  “Did he say where he was goin’?”

  “He was trackin’ two men who had been here before him,” she replied. “They were all goin’ to Nogales.”

  “How far away is that?”

  “Maybe twenty miles.” She reached out and put her hand on his arm. “But you don’t want to ride in the dark. And you said you were hungry. Why not have a meal and spend the night. You can get an early start tomorrow.”

  “Well,” he said, “I am pretty tired. Are you sure another man didn’t ride in today before me?”

  “No,” she said, “nobody. Are you trackin’ somebody other than the two your brother is trackin’?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but they did what they did together. I figure they’re meetin’ up.”

  “Well, if they do,” she said, “perhaps you will meet your brother. Have a seat, I’ll bring some food. And beer?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “You Shaye men,” she said, stroking his cheek as he sat, “handsome and polite.”

  She went into the kitchen to get the food, and while she was there the bartender came over with a mug of beer.

  “Thank you,” James said.

  “Por nada, señor.”

  Moments later the woman came out and, after covering the table with a frayed cloth, laid out plates of meat, vegetables, rice and tortillas.

  “Sure smells good,” he said.

  “Eat as much as you want,” she said. “There is a room in the back for you.”

  “You’re very kind,” he said.

  “Not so kind,” she said. “I’ll be chargin’ you.”

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “I can pay.”

  “I’m not worried,” she assured him.

  After eating enough to fill his belly twice over, James allowed the woman—she said her name was Irma—to show him to his room. It was small, but clean. The floor creaked as they moved around, as it had in the hallway.

  “Thank you, Miss Irma.”

  She touched the scooped neck of her blouse and said, “I could come back a little later, keep you company.”

  “And there’d be a charge for that, too?” he asked.

  “Well, of course.”

  “That’s okay, then,” James said. “I’ll just get some sleep. I need to start early in the mornin’.”

  “After breakfast?” she asked.

  “Coffee will be fine,” he said. “Good-night.”

  “Good-night, James. I’ll be out front or down the hall, if you change your mind during the night and want a warm body next to you.”

  He leaned out and watched her walk down the hall—stepping on the creaky boards along the way—then closed the door. Sitting on the bed, he removed his boots. He hated the idea of being two days behind Thomas, but Irma was right about one thing. It wouldn’t be smart to try to ride at night.

  If Candy bypassed Tubac, he was probably camped between there and Nogales. James would push his mount the next morning, get to Nogales before noon.

  He reclined on the bed and tried to get to sleep.

  Sometime during the night James woke. He frowned, wondering what had awakened him, then realized what it was. That creaky floorboard in the hall. He grabbed his gun from the holster on the bedpost and got off the bed. He crouched next to it and waited, with his eyes on the door. There was just enough moonlight through the window for him to see that there was light coming from beneath the door from a lamp in the hall. As he watched, the shadow of two feet appeared beneath the door.

  James held his gun ready as somebody touched the doorknob. Slowly, the door began to open, and by the light from the hall, he saw a gun. He forced himself to wait, and when the man was inside the room, he fired. The bullet struck the shadow of the man and drove him out into the hall.

  James ran for the door, gun ready, but he didn’t need another shot. Candy lay in the hall, dead.

  “Irma?” James called. He wondered if she’d been working with Candy. “I’m comin’ down the hall, Irma.”

  He moved down the hallway with his gun at the ready, checked the other rooms and found them empty. Stepping into the cantina, he found that empty, as well. That left the kitchen. He went there and looked in. Tied up and gagged on the floor were Irma and her bartender, who looked as if he’d also been pistol-whipped.

  He holstered his gun and set about untying them.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m so sorry,” Irma said, “but when you got here, he was in the kitchen with his gun. I couldn’t warn you. He said
he’d kill us.”

  “That’s okay,” James said. “He’s dead now.”

  “Is he the man you were chasin’?” she asked, as he helped her to her feet.

  “Yes, he was,” James said. “I was hopin’ he’d lead me to the others.”

  “What will you do now?” she asked.

  “Well, you take care of him,” he said, indicating the battered and bruised bartender, “and I’ll get the body out of here. Then we’ll try to get some sleep, and I’ll head out come mornin’. Maybe I can catch up to my brother before he catches up to the others.”

  “But you’re two days behind him.”

  “I’ll push my horse,” James said. “I have to try.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “for helpin’ us.”

  “That’s okay,” James said. “Take care of your bartender, and I’ll dump the body. Maybe my brother and I will stop here on the way back and pick it up.”

  “A-all right,” she said. “Would you like a drink when you come back in?”

  “Actually, yeah,” he said. “I’d really like a drink.”

  The next morning James woke to a full Mexican breakfast, which Irma insisted he eat before leaving.

  “You saved us last night,” she said. “We owe you somethin’.”

  “Si, señor,” the bartender said, bringing over a pot of coffee.

  So he ate and washed it down with the coffee, then went out to saddle his horse, which he had left in a deserted livery stable the night before.

  When he rode back past the cantina, Irma was standing outside.

  “Remember,” she called out to him, “you and your brother come back.”

  He waved.

  “Good luck!” she called after him.

  Now that he had no trail to follow, James simply gave the horse his spurs and rode hell-bent-for-leather for Nogales. He hoped that he would not only find his brother there, but find him alive.

  THIRTY-TWO

  James reached Nogales on the American side on an exhausted horse—and it was not yet dusk. He rode directly to the sheriff’s office and dismounted. As he entered, a man with tired eyes sitting behind the desk looked up at him, surprised.

  “Help you, stranger?” he asked.

  “You the sheriff?”

  “That’s me.” The man pointed to the star on his chest. “Frank Dewey’s my name.”