Renegades

by William W. Johnstone

  Eventually they were both soaked. The drizzle became thicker. No one would be able to track them very easily in this, Frank told himself, and that was something else to be thankful for. But at the same time, the weather was liable to make it more difficult for him to locate the Almanzar hacienda. He didn’t know this country well at all, and had been steering his course by keeping the mountains on his right hand. By late afternoon, with the rain and the overcast skies, everything was gray everywhere he looked, and he couldn’t even see the mountains anymore. All he could do was hope that he had Stormy and El Rey plodding in the right direction and that he wouldn’t ride past the hacienda without ever seeing it.

  Frank reined in as Antonio cried out abruptly. He dismounted and stepped back to find that the young man was sitting up in the saddle and staring wildly around him. “Esteban!” Antonio called. “Lupe!”

  “They’re not here, ’Tonio,” Frank said, using the familiar form of the name in hopes it would help him get through to Antonio. “I’m Frank Morgan. I’m taking you home.”

  “Carmen!”

  “That’s right, I’m taking you home to Carmen,” Frank told him in a soothing voice.

  Antonio stared at him with no recognition in his dark, burning eyes. “Mama,” he croaked. Then he groaned and fell forward. Frank reached up to grab his shoulder and steady him. Antonio started muttering again as he closed his eyes, but none of the words made any sense to Frank. He was out of his head from fever and loss of blood. His black hair, soaked from the rain, fell down over his eyes. Frank pushed it back and then shook his head. There was nothing he could do for Antonio except what he was already doing.

  Back in the saddle, he rode on. After a while he began to wonder if he was out of his head, too, because he could have sworn that he heard music in the rain.

  He tugged on the reins, bringing Stormy to a halt. A frown corrugated his forehead. He blinked rainwater out of his eyes and looked around, searching for any sign of life other than that half-heard music. After a moment he thought he saw a tiny scrap of light in the gloom. Frank pointed the horses toward it and walked them forward.

  The light vanished and the music stopped, and for a bad minute Frank believed he had imagined them both. But then the faint glow reappeared. Not only that, but he could see it better now, too, and he recognized its square shape. It was coming through a window. The rain had grown hard enough to obscure it momentarily, but now Frank knew it was real. “Come on, hoss,” he said to Stormy, and his voice had such an exhausted croak to it that it sounded strange to his ears.

  A few minutes later, he reined Stormy to a halt in front of a squalid little adobe hut that might as well have been the fanciest mansion in Philadelphia or New York to Frank Morgan’s eyes. The hut had only one oilcloth-covered window, but the light in that window had served as a beacon, leading Frank here. He dismounted, so tired that he had to grab hold of the saddle horn for a second to steady himself when his feet hit the ground. Hanging onto the reins of both horses, he stumbled over to the door of the jacal and banged a fist on it.

  “Help!” he called. “Por favor! I’ve got a wounded man out here, and I need help!”

  “Step away from the door, Señor,” a man’s voice replied in English, “or I will shoot through it!”

  “Damn it, I’m not looking for trouble!”

  “Step back!” the voice ordered again.

  Frank moved away from the door. “All right,” he said. “I did what you told me.”

  The door swung inward, letting light spill out into the thickening gloom. Frank saw the twin barrels of a shotgun poke through the opening. “Who are you?” the hut’s inhabitant demanded.

  “My name is Frank Morgan. I have a wounded man with me. His name is Antonio Almanzar—”

  “Dios mio!” the man exclaimed. “Don Antonio?” He appeared in the doorway, caution forgotten for the moment in his surprise. “I am one of Don Felipe’s vaqueros. I have heard that you were a guest at the hacienda, Señor Morgan. What happened?”

  Frank sighed with relief. This jacal had to be the Mexican equivalent of a line shack, and this man was one of Don Felipe’s riders. “Give me a hand with him,” Frank said. “He’s been shot through the side.”

  The vaquero set his shotgun aside and hurried out into the rain. He was a short, stocky man wearing a poncho. He hadn’t bothered to put on his sombrero, so the hard drizzle streamed off his black hair. Together, he and Frank untied the bindings that held Antonio on the black stallion and lowered the young man from the saddle. Antonio was unconscious again.

  They carried him inside and the vaquero said, “Put him on my bunk, Señor.”

  “He’s soaking wet, just like me,” Frank pointed out.

  “ ’That matters not. He is the son of my patrón.”

  They lowered Antonio onto a rope bunk in the corner. As they straightened, the vaquero stared down at the young man. “Madre de Dios, is he going to die?”

  Frank said, “Not if I can help it. Do you have any tequila here?”

  “Sí, Señor.” The vaquero went over to a crate that served as a cabinet of sorts and he brought back a bottle. He drew the cork from the neck with his teeth and offered the bottle to Frank, evidently thinking that his visitor wanted a drink.

  Instead, Frank knelt beside the bunk and pulled Antonio’s torn shirt aside to expose the bullet holes in the young man’s torso. During the long afternoon, the rain had gradually washed away most of the dried blood, leaving the raw, red-rimmed holes visible. Frank poured the tequila into the entrance wound, taking his time about it, letting the fiery liquor run all the way through and trickle out the exit wound, mixed with fresh blood. Antonio gasped and arched his back off the bunk.

  “Hold him down!” Frank snapped at the vaquero.

  Clumsily, the man did his best to help. Frank poured the tequila into the wound until he felt like it had been cleaned out as best he could manage under the circumstances. Antonio lay back on the bunk as the pain subsided a little. Frank handed the bottle to the vaquero and said, “You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee, would you?”

  “For Don Antonio, you mean, Señor?”

  Frank smiled. “For me, amigo, because without it I think I might just go to sleep right here on your floor.”

  The vaquero’s name was Hermando. He had been working for Don Felipe for several years and had a wife and three children and a cottage near the hacienda, where he would have been on this cold, rainy night if it had not been his turn to stay for a few days in this jacal. The hut was located near the boundary line of the Almanzar rancho, and Hermando’s job was to push back any cattle that had strayed too close to or even over the line.

  Frank sat at the rough-hewn table in the center of the jacal’s single room, sipped coffee, and ate some goat stew that Hermando had warmed up for him over the flames in the tiny fireplace. The food made Frank feel a lot better. The fact that Antonio seemed to be sleeping fairly peacefully helped ease his mind, too.

  Dog lay by the door, resting, his head on his paws. Hermando hunkered in a corner near the fireplace and strummed the strings of the mandolin that Frank had heard him playing earlier. Frank said, “I’m glad you were feeling musical tonight, amigo. The music helped lead me to this place.”

  “A song is a good companion, Señor. It does not make me miss my wife and my little ones any less, but it makes being away from them more bearable.” Hermando looked over at Antonio. “Everyone on the rancho knows that the Black Scorpion kidnapped Don Antonio. Did you snatch him from the clutches of that hombre, Señor Morgan? Was that how he came to be wounded?”

  “Something like that,” Frank said noncommittally. He had spent part of the long ride debating with himself whether or not to reveal the fact that Antonio was really the Black Scorpion. He had decided that for the time being he would play his cards close to the vest and keep that knowledge to himself. Esteban had known Antonio’s secret, of course, but Frank had no idea if anyone else on the rancho was aware of it.


  “The Rurales had gone after him, too. What happened to them?”

  “They shot it out with the Black Scorpion’s gang,” Frank replied grimly. “I didn’t see the end of the fracas, so I’m not sure what happened.” That much, at least, was pretty much true.

  “It would be too much to hope for that Capitán Estancia and his Rurales were all killed,” Hermando muttered. “It is said that the Black Scorpion is an outlaw, but I have never seen any proof of it. At least, not until he raided Don Felipe’s hacienda and stole Don Antonio. And even then, Señor, did you know that no one was killed or even wounded?”

  That was because the raid had been staged, Frank thought. Antonio’s followers had fired their shots high, creating a lot of sound and fury but not much real danger. In fact, the raiders had been in more danger than the hacienda’s defenders, because the defenders hadn’t known that it wasn’t a real raid and had been trying to fight back. The lightning quickness of the foray had prevented any of Antonio’s men from being killed, however.

  “The Rurales, though,” Hermando went on, “I know they are bad. Everyone around here lives in fear of them.”

  “That won’t go on forever,” Frank said. “Sooner or later somebody will put a stop to it.”

  “From your mouth to the ear of El Señor Dios, amigo.”

  Hermando had enough blankets to make pallets on the floor for himself and Frank. Earlier, Frank had put Stormy and El Rey in the little shed behind the hut with Hermando’s horse. They had water and grain and Frank was confident they would be all right for the rest of the night. Having finished his food, he stood up and walked over to the bunk, carrying his tin cup of coffee. He sipped the last of it as he looked down at Antonio’s pale, drawn face. Underneath the blanket that was spread over him, his chest rose and fell regularly. Frank had bandaged the wounds, and that was all he could do for Antonio now.

  “In the morning, you can ride to the hacienda and fetch help,” Frank said to Hermando. “Antonio might be able to ride the rest of the way, but it would be better if Don Felipe brought a wagon for him.”

  “Sí, Señor. If you prefer, I can stay with Don Antonio and you can go to the hacienda.”

  Frank shook his head. “You know the way better than I do, so you can make better time. The sooner this boy is back in his own bed, being cared for by somebody who knows what they’re doing, the more likely it is that he’ll recover.”

  “Of course, Señor. You must remember, though, that without you, he would already be dead. If he lives, it is you who have saved his life.”

  Frank drank the last of his coffee and stood there for a moment longer. He didn’t care who got the credit for saving Antonio’s life. Such things meant nothing to him. What was important was that the young man pull through and recover from his wounds.

  And that somebody, somehow, should put a stop to the reign of terror being carried out by Captain Domingo Estancia and the Rurales, so that no more innocent men would be cut down by the ruthless bullets of bastards whose only goal was to steal freedom from those who deserved it.

  26

  Several times during the night, Antonio thrashed around and cried out and babbled nonsense without really waking up. Frank checked on him during those times and found that his fever was high. But in the morning, Antonio’s face was covered with sweat despite the fact that the room was chilly. Frank knew that the fever had broken.

  The rain had stopped but the sky was still overcast. Hermando left before dawn, setting out for the hacienda. Frank boiled a pot of coffee and made a skimpy breakfast on tortillas and beans. He was sitting at the table finishing up the meal when Antonio said weakly from the bunk, “Señor . . . Señor Morgan?”

  Frank stood and walked over to him. Antonio tried to push himself up on an elbow. Frank rested a hand on his shoulder and eased him back down. “You’re all right, Antonio,” he said. “Just lie there and rest. I’ll get you some water if you want it.”

  “What ... what happened? Am I shot?”

  “You sure as hell are,” Frank told him with a smile. “Bullet went right through your side. You’re going to be all right, though. Probably have to be laid up for a while, but you’ll get over that.”

  “Wh-where are we?”

  “A jacal on your father’s rancho. A vaquero named Hermando was staying here. He’s gone back to the hacienda to fetch help. I imagine your father will be along later in the day with a wagon to take you home.”

  Antonio closed his eyes and sighed. “When I was hit, I thought surely I would die. That is the last thing I remember.” He gasped and his eyes snapped open. “Esteban! Lupe! Where are they?”

  Frank had hoped that Antonio wouldn’t think of that right now. The shape he was in, the young man didn’t need to get worked up about anything. Frank wasn’t going to lie to him, though.

  “I don’t know where Lupe is. I lost track of him during the fight with Estancia’s Rurales.”

  “Then he may still be alive!”

  “He may be,” Frank agreed.

  “And Esteban?”

  “Esteban ... didn’t make it.”

  Antonio groaned as if in mortal pain. Frank supposed that, in a way, he was.

  “How ... how did he die?”

  This might just make it worse, Frank thought, but again, he wasn’t going to lie. “When you were wounded, Esteban jumped right in the middle of those Rurales who had you surrounded. He fought them off and protected you with his own body. I got there as fast as I could to help him, but he’d already taken a bayonet thrust and been shot a few times. He kept you alive, Antonio.”

  “At the cost of his own life.”

  Frank nodded slowly. “It was a price he was willing to pay.”

  Antonio turned his head to the side and closed his eyes again. He drew a ragged breath. “Dios mio,” he murmured. “Dios mio ...”

  Frank brought the room’s single chair over, reversed it, and straddled it. After a few minutes of silence, Antonio looked at him again and asked, “The other men with me ... what happened to them?”

  “A lot of them were killed. I don’t know how many got away, if any. But they gave as good as they got before they went down. They probably wiped out half of Estancia’s command.”

  “At the cost of all my command,” Antonio said.

  “They knew they were outnumbered and outgunned. The fight was of their choosing. And they struck a heavy blow against the Rurales. My guess is that Estancia will be licking his wounds for a while, instead of running roughshod over the countryside and terrorizing folks.”

  “But Estancia himself, he lives?”

  Frank shrugged. “He was alive the last time I saw him, when I was riding away from there with you.”

  “That bastard. The fires of Hell are too good for him.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me,” Frank said.

  Antonio fell silent again. After a few more minutes went by, he said, “When my father gets here, will you tell him that I am the Black Scorpion?”

  “What’s the point in that?” Frank asked. Until this moment, he still hadn’t made up his mind what he would do, but now his course seemed clear. “It would only hurt Don Felipe to know that you staged your own kidnapping to finagle that ransom out of him. It just doesn’t seem to matter anymore, does it?”

  Antonio shook his head. “No. As you said, it will be a long time before I recover from these wounds.” With a shaking hand, Antonio pulled the bandanna from around his neck, wadded it up, and held it out to Frank. “The Black Scorpion might as well have died in battle.”

  “Might as well,” Frank said as he took the bandanna and stuffed it in his pocket. “There’s just one more thing I want to know before we lay the Black Scorpion to rest. Was it your men who jumped Cecil and Ben Tolliver a while back between San Rosa and the Rocking T and tried to kill them?”

  Again, Antonio shook his head. “We have never done anything to harm any of the Tollivers, despite how my father feels about them.”

&n
bsp; That jibed with Frank’s hunch, but it left unexplained the real identity of the raiders who had ambushed Tolliver and Ben. It had been a mixed bunch, both Mexicans and gringos, and so far in his adventures, Frank hadn’t come across anything to indicate who those gun wolves had been working for.

  Late in the morning, Frank heard the rattle of wagon wheels outside. Antonio had dozed off again, and Frank was letting him sleep. The young man needed the rest. But he awoke as Dog barked at the wagon and riders who were approaching the jacal.

  Frank stepped outside. Hermando had ridden to the hacienda on El Rey, and now Don Felipe was on the black stallion, riding alongside the covered wagon. Carmen sat on the wagon seat next to the vaquero who was handling the reins. Hermando and several other vaqueros trailed the vehicle.

  When Don Felipe saw Frank, he spurred ahead. “My son,” he said anxiously as he brought El Rey to a halt in front of the hut. “Does he still live?”

  “He lives,” Frank said with a smile and a nod. “The fever has broken. He still needs a lot of care, but I think he’s going to be all right.”

  Don Felipe made the sign of the cross before dismounting. He closed his eyes and murmured thanks to the Blessed Virgin. Then he swung down from the saddle and strode to the doorway. Frank stepped aside to let him enter the jacal.

  While Don Felipe was inside being reunited with his son, Frank went over to the wagon to help Carmen down from the seat. “He is truly all right?” she asked as soon as her feet were on the ground.

  “As good as can be expected with a bullet wound through his side,” Frank told her.

  “What of old Esteban?”

  Frank shook his head. “He didn’t make it.”

  Tears glittered in Carmen’s dark eyes. “He was a good man. He was almost like a grandfather to me.”

  “He was quite a fighter, too.”