Renegades

by William W. Johnstone

  The life he had led had blessed Frank with a hardy constitution. His recuperative powers came into play during that morning as he followed the Black Scorpion’s trail into the foothills of the mountains. While he was still far from being at top strength, he no longer felt as weak as a kitten. The pain in his head had receded into a dull ache that was bearable, though still annoying. He wouldn’t be able to move very fast on foot because of that bad ankle, but as long as he was on horseback, he thought he could handle most trouble that might come his way.

  The landscape had changed when he entered the foothills. There was more grass on the ground, and some of the hills were dotted with pine trees. He saw a few cattle here and there, but when he came close enough to one of the animals to be able to make out the brand on its hip, he couldn’t read it. The brand was the usual “skillet of snakes” sort preferred by Mexican ranchers. They could make sense of the markings even when no one else could. Frank wondered if he was on Don Felipe Almanzar’s range and if those were Almanzar’s cows.

  The trail grew harder to follow as the ground became rockier and less sandy. Frank thought about turning around and heading for the border, but he was too stubborn to give up on his quest. He wanted to find the Black Scorpion. Of course, he reminded himself, he was a civilian, and a gringo to boot. If he captured the bandit and took him back across the Rio Grande, it would be tantamount to kidnapping in the eyes of the Mexican authorities.

  On the other hand, the Rurales would probably be glad to get their hands on the Black Scorpion, too. If he captured the Scorpion and then ran into a troop of the Mexican frontier police, he would just have to turn his prisoner over to them—that was all there was to it.

  But maybe he wouldn’t run into the Rurales, he thought as he rode along a canyon between two of the hills. Maybe he wouldn’t even find the Black Scorpion. This whole thing might be crazy, just a wild-goose chase....

  Somewhere up ahead, somebody screamed.

  No, Frank thought a second later, not somebody. Some thing. Unless he was badly mistaken, that had been the screech of a mountain lion. He knew such creatures were to be found here in these Mexican sierras.

  Stormy tossed his head, no doubt agreeing that the unnerving noise had been the cry of a mountain lion. Horses had a natural aversion to the big cats, and Stormy hesitated, not wanting to go on down the canyon toward the sound. Alongside, Dog curled his lip and snarled as the thick fur on his back ruffled up.

  The scream of the mountain lion came again, followed by another cry. Frank stiffened in the saddle as he realized that the terrified shriek had come from a human throat. A woman’s throat.

  “I know you don’t like it, boy, but let’s go!” Frank said as he sent Stormy galloping along the canyon.

  9

  The trail went around a bend up ahead. Frank drew his Winchester from the saddle sheath as Stormy rounded the turn at top speed. The gunfighter’s eyes took in the scene before him instantly. About fifty yards ahead of him, a huge, tawny mountain lion crouched atop a rock outcropping that loomed over the trail. The big cat’s tail swished back and forth rapidly as it poised to leap on its prey. The only thing holding back the mountain lion was its indecision as it tried to choose between two victims.

  A black horse danced around skittishly, trying to pull free from where its reins were caught in some brush. That was the only thing that kept it from bolting in terror. A few yards away lay a young woman in a riding outfit: boots, split skirt, a leather vest over a blousy white shirt, and a hat with its neck strap tight under her chin. She had pushed herself into a half-sitting position and was staring in horror at the mountain lion. Frank knew that she must have been riding along the trail when the big cat leaped to the top of the rocks and screamed. That had caused her mount to shy and rear up, throwing her. Then the horse had tried to run but had gotten snagged in the brush alongside the trail. Frank knew it as well as if he had seen it happen.

  Just as he knew that within a second or two at most, the mountain lion would spring.

  He yanked Stormy to a halt and brought the rifle to his shoulder in one smooth motion. His aches and pains were all forgotten as muscles and nerves trained by long years of danger galvanized into action. The big cat leaped from the top of the rocks like a tawny lightning bolt. Frank tracked it with the barrel of the Winchester and squeezed the trigger, knowing he had time for only one shot.

  The rifle kicked hard against his shoulder as it blasted. The mountain lion jerked and yowled and twisted in midair as the bullet caught it. Falling short of the young woman, the cat rolled and flailed with its paws as its blood pumped out onto the dirt of the trail.

  “Get away from there!” Frank shouted at the woman, not knowing if she understood English but knowing that one of those slashing paws might still reach her. If it did, the claws would rip vicious wounds in her flesh. Thankfully, she was able to overcome the fear that had nearly paralyzed her a moment earlier. She scrambled to her feet and ran away from the wounded mountain lion.

  Frank levered another round into the Winchester’s chamber, lifted the rifle again, drew a bead, and fired a second shot. This one struck the big cat in the head, bored through its brain, and put the animal out of its misery. The mountain lion stretched out, quivered and trembled for a moment, and then lay still.

  Frank lowered the rifle but didn’t replace it in the saddle sheath. He heeled Stormy into a walk that carried them toward the young woman. She stood beside the trail with her hands pressed to her mouth, her gaze jerking back and forth between Frank and the dead mountain lion.

  He reined Stormy to a halt again and asked, “Are you all right, Señorita?” He imagined he looked a little frightening, too, a gun-wielding gringo with streaks of dried blood on his face.

  She gave him a shaky nod. “S-si, señor.” she said. She was around twenty years old, Frank thought, and definitely lovely with long black hair, dark eyes, and smooth olive skin.

  As pretty as she was, though, he had other things to worry about at the moment. He turned and studied the hillside, making sure that the big cat didn’t have a mate somewhere close by ready to avenge him. When he didn’t see any sign of another mountain lion, he finally slid the Winchester back in its scabbard.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. “Su nombre?”

  “I speak English, Señor,” she said. “My name is Carmen Maria Luisa Almanzar.”

  That came as a surprise to Frank, although not much of one. He hadn’t known that Don Felipe had a daughter, but there was no reason for him to have thought that the man had no children. Almanzar could have a dozen kids for all Frank knew.

  She stepped closer to him, lifting a hand. “You are hurt, Señor.”

  Frank started to tell her that he’d had a run-in with the Black Scorpion, but then he stopped before the words could come out of his mouth. Running across Señorita Almanzar might be a lucky break for him. For the moment, he would play his cards close to the vest.

  “Yes, I was attacked,” he said, “but I’ll be all right.”

  “Who assaulted you, Señor? Bandits?”

  Frank shook his head. “I don’t know. I never got a look at them. I assume they intended to rob me. They creased my head with a bullet....” He pointed to the bloody knot on his head, which Carmen Almanzar had already seen. “I was knocked unconscious. When I came to, whoever shot me was gone.”

  “Perhaps your . . . wolf . . . frightened them away.”

  Frank glanced around and saw Dog sniffing at the carcass of the mountain lion. “Get away from there,” he called, and Dog obediently abandoned the body to come trotting over to Frank. Carmen shrank back a little at the big cur’s approach.

  “You don’t have to worry about him,” Frank told her. “He’s a dog, and he’s friendly when I tell him to be.”

  “Sí, señor. I will take your word for it.” She paused and then went on. “Who are you, Señor? What are you doing on Almanzar land?” She caught her breath and lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh! That’
s sounds rude, and so ungrateful. I would not be alive now if you had not killed that . . . that awful beast.”

  Frank smiled. “You’re welcome as you can be, Señorita Almanzar. I’m just glad I came along in time to help. As for me, my name is Frank Morgan.”

  There was no recognition in Carmen’s lustrous dark eyes. It was nice for a change, Frank thought, to run into somebody who hadn’t heard of him.

  “I’m just drifting,” he went on. “I never stay in one place for too long, and I was looking for a nice warm place to spend the winter.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. He was a drifter, hence the nickname, and he had come to south Texas hoping to find a good spot to hunker down until the next spring.

  “But Señor, you are in Mexico,” Carmen protested.

  “A warm, friendly country, from everything I’ve heard,” Frank said with a grin.

  “Not that friendly. Not now. Not for gringos . . . or anyone else.”

  Carmen’s face was solemn, even grim, as she spoke. Frank wondered if the reason she felt that way had anything to do with the Black Scorpion.

  He lightly touched the swollen lump on the side of his head and said, “I reckon I’m beginning to see what you mean. You have a bandit problem down here, don’t you?”

  “Bandits . . . and others,” she said enigmatically. Before he could question her any further, she went on. “You must come with me to my father’s hacienda. His rancho is the biggest one in this part of Mexico, and once he hears how you saved my life, he will welcome you, Señor Morgan. To be honest, he has little use for gringos, but in your case I am sure he will make an exception.”

  “I could use a place to rest up for a spell,” Frank said with a grateful nod. “I twisted my ankle, too, so I’m a mite hobbled right now.”

  “Let me get my horse, and I will take you to the hacienda.” She went over to the black mare, which had settled down some once the big cat was dead. The horse still seemed fairly nervous, though. It took Carmen a moment to free the reins from the brush. She spoke softly, calmingly, in Spanish to the mare as she did so.

  “What about the mountain lion?” Frank asked. “You want me to throw a rope on it and haul it in, so you can have the hide?”

  A shudder went through Carmen as she settled down in the saddle. “Not at all. If my brother killed a cat like that, he would want to mount the head as a trophy. A barbaric custom, if you ask me.”

  They rode side by side along the canyon, Carmen indicating the way they should go. Frank said, “If I’m not being too forward, what were you doing, out riding around by yourself like that?”

  She sniffed and gave a defiant little toss of her head that made her long black hair swirl around her shoulders. “This is my father’s rancho,” she said. “I ride where and when I please.”

  So she was more than a little spoiled, Frank thought. Probably the apple of her daddy’s eye and used to getting her own way. A girl as pretty as her couldn’t hardly help but be spoiled, because there would always be some man around, falling all over himself to do whatever she wanted. Frank was old enough to be immune to such feminine charms, however.

  Well, maybe not completely immune, he corrected himself as he thought about Roanne Williamson.

  They came to a better-traveled trail that led through the foothills. From a high spot on the trail Frank looked to the northeast and saw rangeland stretching into the distance toward the Rio Grande. Here along the edge of the mountains the pastures were fairly lush with grass, or at least they would be during the spring and summer, he judged. The advancing season had made the vegetation die down a bit. Farther out on the flat, the land was drier and it would take more acres to support a cow. Or did they measure land in hectares on this side of the border? Frank couldn’t remember, and he knew it didn’t really matter what they called it. The Almanzar ranch appeared to be a good spread, better probably than the Rocking T across the border.

  “My father’s hacienda is only a few miles away,” Carmen was saying when Frank noticed dust rising from the trail a few hundred yards ahead of them. He reined in, causing Carmen to do likewise.

  “Somebody’s coming,” he said with a nod toward the spiral of dust.

  Carmen took a deep breath and paled. “Is it more than one rider?” she asked tautly.

  “I don’t think so,” Frank replied, “but I can’t be sure about that just yet.”

  Carmen reached for her saddlebag, opened it, and drew out a small pistol. She handled it like she was used to the weapon.

  “You reckon it might be bandits?” Frank asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  Again, he was struck by the feeling that in Carmen’s opinion, there were worse things than bandits on the loose in these parts. She didn’t volunteer an explanation, though, and he didn’t press her on the matter. He might learn more just by keeping his eyes and ears open.

  Anyway, he was pretty sure now that only one rider was kicking up that dust, and Frank was confident in his ability to handle one man, whoever he was.

  The man came in sight, riding swiftly toward them on a big gray. Carmen relaxed and heaved a sigh of relief. “I know that horse,” she said. “That is my brother riding it.”

  Frank had been ready to draw the Winchester from the saddle boot. He took his hand away from the rifle. Surely he wouldn’t have anything to fear from Carmen’s brother, especially once he heard how Frank had saved the young woman from the mountain lion.

  Carmen lifted a hand over her head and began to wave as the rider came closer. “Antonio! Antonio!” she called.

  The young man wore a fine suit of brown cloth decorated with embroidered gold threads. His flat-crowned hat was a darker brown. The tight trousers were tucked into high-topped boots, and strapped onto the boots were spurs with the big rowels that Mexican horsemen usually preferred. His saddle and the gray’s harness were worked with silver trappings. He was a fine young grandee, Frank thought, the very picture of a wealthy hacendado’s son.

  “Carmen!” he called as he came closer, and then suddenly his dark, handsome face contorted with anger as he looked over at Frank. He jabbed those spurs into the gray’s flanks and sent the horse leaping forward. At the same time his hand flashed toward the butt of the revolver holstered on his hip.

  10

  “Antonio!” Carmen cried as she desperately spurred her own mount forward, getting between Frank and her brother. “No!”

  Instinct had made Frank reach for his own gun. The Colt had come out of the holster in less than the blink of an eye. It was already up and leveled, but Frank held off on the trigger as the girl got in the way.

  She twisted in the saddle and looked wide-eyed at him. “Por favor, Señor Morgan!” she pleaded. “Do not kill my brother!”

  “Carmen!” Antonio Almanzar shouted. “Get back! Get away from the bandit!”

  Antonio hadn’t drawn his gun. Carmen’s action had startled him and kept him from completing the hook-and-draw he had started. Frank lowered his Colt slightly and called, “Take it easy, Señor. I’m not a bandit.”

  Antonio glared at him. “You are a gringo!” the young man practically spat, as if that was enough of a condemnation by itself. “You must be down here to rob us. Look at you! You have your gun out like a common killer!”

  “You went for your iron first, son,” Frank said tautly as anger welled up in him. He kept it under control as he holstered the Colt. “There. That ought to make you feel better.”

  Antonio would have responded hotly, but before he could speak, Carmen said, “Antonio, Señor Morgan saved my life. And this is the way you greet him?”

  Antonio frowned at her. “Saved your life?” he repeated.

  “Yes, my horse had thrown me, and a mountain lion sprang at me.” A touch of awe could be heard in Carmen’s voice as she went on. “Señor Morgan shot the beast out of the air, even as it leaped. Never have I seen such a shot.”

  “That is ... incredible,” Antonio muttered. He still didn’t look pleased to see Frank, but at least h
e wasn’t reaching for his gun. He said, “I thank you for saving my sister’s life, Señor. My foolish sister,” he added, “who should not have been out riding alone.”

  “Foolish, am I?” Carmen flared.

  Antonio jerked his head in a nod. “Indeed. When our father realized that you were gone, he sent me to look for you. You defy his wishes all too often, Carmen.”

  She did that head-tossing thing again, Frank saw. “My life is my own, to lead as I see fit!”

  Frank knew her brother saw that differently, and he would have been willing to bet that her father did, too. Carmen was more outspoken, more defiant, than most young Mexican women. Again, it went back to her beauty, he supposed. That and the fact that her father’s wealth had no doubt shielded her from many of the harsh realities of life.

  With a surly glare, Antonio turned his horse. “Come,” he snapped. “I will accompany you back to the hacienda.”

  “What about Señor Morgan?” Carmen said.

  Antonio looked over his shoulder at Frank, still with no friendliness. “It seems my family owes you a debt,” he said. “Come with us so that we can repay you.”

  Frank had no interest in being repaid, but he did want to see the Almanzar hacienda and meet Don Felipe. So he nodded and said simply, “Gracias.”

  The three of them rode on, with Antonio looking a little askance at Dog as the big cur trotted along with them. After a few minutes, he said, “That is an ugly brute.”

  “Yep, that he is,” Frank agreed. “But he’s the best dog I ever ran into.”

  “I will take your word for it, Señor.” Antonio lifted a hand and gestured vaguely toward Frank’s head. “What happened to you?”

  “Señor Morgan was shot by bandits, or perhaps by someone else,” Carmen said before Frank could answer.

  “Es verdad?”