Renegades

by William W. Johnstone

  For a moment, Carmen’s face twisted in lines of hate. She spat, “Estancia! He is to blame for this. Esteban’s blood is on his hands, as is the blood of my brother!”

  “That’s right. There was a showdown between the Rurales and the Black Scorpion’s men, and that was when Antonio was wounded.”

  “But you saved his life, Señor Morgan. You brought him back from the threshold of death.”

  Frank shook his head. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I just put him on a horse and got him out of there. Hermando helped me patch him up when we got here last night.”

  Carmen took Frank’s right hand in both of hers and said, “I cannot thank you, Señor. There are no words.”

  Frank leaned a little closer to her, lowered his voice, and asked, “You hear anything from Ben Tolliver?”

  Carmen gave a quick shake of her head. “Nothing. But I know he told his family that you were all right and at our hacienda.”

  Frank was glad to hear that. He hadn’t wanted the Tollivers—and Roanne Williamson—to be too worried about him when he didn’t come back from below the border with the Rangers.

  It seemed like months had passed since he rode across the Rio Grande, rather than just a couple of weeks. A little less than that, actually. His time in Mexico had been eventful.

  Don Felipe appeared in the doorway. “Carmen, your brother wishes to see you.”

  Carmen hurried inside. Don Felipe came over to Frank and extended his hand. “I owe you more than I can ever repay you, Señor Morgan.”

  “You were calling me Frank, remember?” Frank said as he took Almanzar’s hand.

  “Of course. You will always be a friend to the Almanzar family, Frank. Anything that is within my power to do for you, you have only to ask.”

  “How about giving some thought to mending fences with Cecil Tolliver?”

  The suggestion came out before Frank really thought about it, and yet he knew instinctively it was a good one. With all the problems going on in the border country, neither Don Felipe nor Cecil Tolliver needed the added distraction of their long, senseless feud.

  A frown appeared on Don Felipe’s face. “You do not know what you ask, mi amigo. I said I would do anything in my power ... but some fences cannot be mended.”

  “How do you know if you don’t try? Tell me the truth, Don Felipe: Since the trouble cropped up between you and Tolliver, have the two of you ever sat down and just tried to hash it all out?”

  “I have not set foot on his land, nor he on mine,” Don Felipe said stiffly

  “Well, there you go. If the two of you would talk, you might find that you could reach an understanding”

  Almanzar shook his head. “No. Tolliver would never agree to such a meeting.”

  “Even if you were willing to go to his place?”

  “Never! I would not trust him not to try to ambush me.”

  “And I reckon he’d feel the same way if you asked him to come to your hacienda,” Frank said.

  Don Felipe gave a snort of contempt. “No doubt! A man so unworthy of trust himself would never agree to trust another—” He stopped short and his frown darkened as he glowered at Frank. “A neat trap you have laid for me, Señor. Very neat indeed.”

  “I don’t reckon I know what you’re talking about, Don Felipe,” Frank said. “But it sounds to me like what you two need is some neutral ground for your meeting.”

  “I never said there would be a meeting.”

  “But if there was, and if it was held someplace like, say, San Rosa, you and Tolliver could trust each other not to cause any trouble.”

  “San Rosa is on the Texas side of the river,” Don Felipe pointed out.

  “True enough, but it’s not part of the Tolliver ranch.”

  “He has friends there.”

  “I don’t think they’d stand for any sort of ambush, though.” Frank shrugged. “It’s up to you. I’d be glad to ride up to the Rocking T and carry a message to Tolliver for you. I could give you my word that I’d do my best to see that there’s not any sort of double cross.”

  “Your guarantee?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And if there was trouble, you would stand at my side?”

  Now Don Felipe was the one who had done a neat bit of boxing in. Frank had no choice but to go along with him. “I’ll stand at your side,” he said.

  “Then it is a bargain. I will write a message for Cecil Tolliver, and you will carry it to him.”

  Frank nodded. He would be taking a chance, but it would be worth it to arrange a truce between the two ranchers, so that they could turn their attention to more pressing problems than an unnecessary feud.

  A thick pallet was set up in the back of the wagon for Antonio. The vaqueros went into the jacal and carried him out, bunk and all, and then carefully lifted him into the wagon. Carmen stayed at his side all during the ride back to the hacienda. Once they were there, the vaqueros carried Antonio to his room, where the Indian women waited to clean his wounds, apply their healing ointments, and cover the wounds with fresh bandages.

  Don Felipe took Frank into the parlor and poured glasses of brandy for both of them. “It will not seem the same around here without old Esteban,” the don said with a sigh. “He seemed as unchanging, as eternal, as the mountains themselves.”

  “There’s a good chance your son wouldn’t be alive if not for Esteban,” Frank said. “I trust you’ll provide for his wife and children?”

  “Of course.” Don Felipe chuckled. “Some of Esteban’s children are grown, with children and grandchildren of their own. And yet his wife’s belly is heavy with a new child. An amazing man, Esteban.”

  Frank lifted his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

  They drank their brandy in a silent, solemn memorial to Esteban’s passing.

  After a moment went by, Don Felipe said, “You must tell me what happened, Frank. Who shot my son? The Black Scorpion’s bandidos—or Estancia’s Rurales?”

  “It was Estancia’s men. With Esteban’s help, I had gotten into the Black Scorpion’s camp. I’m not sure they were really what you’d call bandidos. I think mostly they were just interested in fighting the Rurales.”

  Don Felipe nodded slowly. “From everything I have heard about them, I am not surprised. They never attacked the common people, only those who worked with Estancia.”

  “From what I heard while I was there, Estancia is closer to a bandit than the Black Scorpion was. He’s mixed up with all the smuggling that goes on along this part of the border, and he’s got regular folks living in terror of him.” Frank’s voice hardened as he went on. “I saw again for myself how he treats people. He took over a village not far from the Scorpion’s hideout and was about to torture the villagers into betraying what they knew about the revolutionaries.”

  “Revolutionaries?” Don Felipe repeated. “That is what the Black Scorpion and his men call themselves?”

  “That’s right.”

  Almanzar poured more brandy. “As good a name as any, perhaps. Go on, Frank.”

  “The Black Scorpion and his men attacked the Rurales rather than let them kill more of the villagers.” That wasn’t exactly the way it had happened, Frank thought, but close enough. “Antonio was still with them when the showdown came, and he was wounded in the fighting. Esteban was killed defending him. I was able to get him on El Rey and get out of there. We made it back to that jacal where Hermando was staying, and you know the rest.”

  “What of the Black Scorpion?”

  Frank shook his head. “Gone. Whether he’s dead or not, I don’t know. Most of his men were wiped out, though, so I wouldn’t expect to see him around any time soon, if ever again.”

  “And the Rurales?”

  “Estancia was alive the last I saw. He suffered heavy losses. But he can get replacements up here, I reckon. Nobody in Mexico City knows that he’s more interested in setting up his own outlaw empire than he is in carrying out El Presidente’s orders.”


  “If someone was to get in touch with the authorities and tell them the truth ...” Don Felipe mused.

  “It might do some good, eventually,” Frank said, “but it might not. I imagine Estancia is paying off some of his superiors to keep his activities covered up.”

  Don Felipe jerked his head in a nod. “Unfortunately, you are probably correct about that. It may be that the Rurales are a problem the people will have to deal with on their own.”

  “Most of the time the people are to be trusted more than the government, anyway.”

  Don Felipe sighed. “This is certainly true in my country.” He took a deep breath. “But for now, at least, Estancia’s plans have been damaged. Perhaps by the time he rebuilds his forces, things will have changed.”

  “We can hope so.” Frank knew better than to count on that, however. Change usually came slowly.

  “In the meantime, I have a son to nurse back to health, and—perhaps—fences to mend.”

  “I’ll drink to that, too,” Frank said.

  27

  Frank took a couple of days to rest up from all the excitement and danger before he rode back across the Rio Grande. Though still vital and healthier than most men twenty years younger than him, he wasn’t as young as he had once been. Good food and plenty of sleep, coupled with his own hardy constitution, put him back at full strength pretty quickly, though.

  Before he left, Don Felipe summoned him to the parlor and made a presentation to him. “You mentioned that you lost your hat during the fight with the Rurales,” Don Felipe said as he held out a brown felt sombrero, its band studded with conchos and its brim decorated by crimson and gold needlework. Carmen stood to one side, watching. “Allow me to replace it, amigo.”

  Frank grinned as he took the hat. “Muchas gracias, Don Felipe. I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen a finer sombrero.” He set it on his head and tightened the bead on the chin strap.

  Carmen clapped her hands and laughed. “You look like a vaquero now, Señor Morgan. Surely at least a drop of Mexican blood flows in your veins.”

  “Well, maybe so,” Frank said. “I don’t rightly know.”

  Don Felipe gave him an envelope as well. “This is the letter I have written to Cecil Tolliver, suggesting that we meet in San Rosa one week from today. If he is agreeable, I will see him there. If not ...” The don shrugged. “At least I tried, as you asked of me, Frank.”

  “And I appreciate that,” Frank said as he tucked the envelope in his shirt pocket. He shook hands with Don Felipe and gave Carmen a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He told her, “Say good-bye to your brother for me.”

  “I will, Señor Morgan,” she promised. “Antonio will be upset that you left while he was sleeping.”

  “He needs his rest, and I need to be riding. Besides, I reckon I’ll probably see him again one of these days.”

  Antonio was still flat on his back in his bed, resting and recovering from his wound. He had lost a lot of blood, and Frank figured it would be at least a week before the young man was up and around again.

  Don Felipe and Carmen followed Frank outside. Stormy and Dog waited for him in front of the wrought-iron gate in the outer wall. Frank swung up into the saddle and lifted a hand in farewell as he rode away from the Almanzar hacienda.

  Stormy had had more than enough rest, and the big Appaloosa was obviously glad to be on the move again. He stretched his legs out into an easy lope that ate up the miles. Dog kept up easily, venturing off to the sides of the trail in hopes of scaring up a rabbit or a lizard.

  As he rode, Frank thought about everything that had happened. Since the ransom hadn’t been needed, Don Felipe had returned to Nuevo Laredo and sent wires arranging for the money’s return to Frank’s accounts, where it had come from to start with. He had also brought back to the hacienda the stories he had heard in the border city about how Captain Domingo Estancia’s Rurale company had suffered grievous losses in a battle with bandidos. Captain Estancia had appealed to Mexico City for new men to replace those he had lost. In the meantime, the Rurales who were left would continue their regular patrols as best they could. As for the bandidos, Estancia’s report stated that they had been wiped out to the last man. Frank knew that wasn’t the case. He knew at least one man—Antonio—had escaped, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if a few of the others had as well. Estancia just didn’t want to admit that.

  Late in the day, Frank forded the Rio Grande at a shallow crossing and sent Stormy up the northern bank. He was back on Texas soil at last, and that felt mighty good. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was, but he knew that if he kept going, sooner or later he would strike the main trail between San Rosa and the Rocking T.

  The sun was just about down when he did so. Judging the Tolliver ranch to be to his right, Frank turned Stormy in that direction.

  He had ridden less than half a mile when he spotted a small adobe ranch house off to the side of the road, with a barn and a large corral behind it. It appeared to be a well-kept layout, and Frank knew it must belong to one of Cecil Tolliver’s neighbors. He would have ridden on past without giving the place a second thought, if a gunshot had not suddenly rung out from somewhere over by the house.

  That made Frank rein in for a moment. He was curious but not worried. This was Texas, after all. There could be all sorts of innocent explanations for a single shot: The rancher could have killed a snake or tried to run off a coyote, or something else like that.

  The woman’s scream that followed on the heels of the gunshot was what made Frank stiffen in the saddle and stare toward the little spread.

  Something was wrong over there, no doubt about that, he thought. He heeled Stormy into motion again, turning the Appaloosa so that he was trotting toward the ranch house.

  As he came closer, Frank saw three men on horseback in front of the house. One of them held a revolver with a thin curl of smoke rising from the barrel. A man lay on the ground just in front of the doorway, writhing in pain as he used his good hand to clutch at a bullet-shattered shoulder. A woman knelt beside him, sobbing as she tried to comfort him. She lifted her head as she cried out, “You didn’t have to shoot him!”

  “I thought he was goin’ for a gun,” drawled the man holding the smoking Colt. He slid the weapon back in the holster on his hip.

  “He isn’t even carrying a gun!” the distraught woman accused.

  “Maybe he ought to start,” one of the other mounted men said. “If he’s goin’ to be a troublemaker, he better be ready when it comes to call.”

  “Nobody’s trying to start any trouble,” the woman insisted.

  “That ain’t the way it looks to us.”

  Frank was close enough to hear the exchange, which meant that the men could hear Stormy’s hoofbeats. One of them said to the others, “Somebody’s comin’,” and they all swung their horses around so that they were facing Frank. In the thickening shadows, he couldn’t see their faces very well. They were just shapes on horseback.

  But that meant they couldn’t see him very well, either, and that was confirmed as one of the men snorted in contempt and said, “Hell, it’s just some damned greaser.”

  They saw the sombrero, Frank thought. It was hard to miss, even in bad light. He pulled Stormy back to a walk and then halted at the edge of the small yard in front of the ranch house. His head was tipped forward a bit so that the broad brim of the sombrero obscured his face even more.

  “What do you want, Pancho?” one of the men snapped. Frank had heard the voices of all three and knew that they were Texans.

  “I heard a shot, Señor,” he said. “I thought perhaps something was wrong.”

  “Something’s wrong, all right. What’s wrong is that you’re messin’ in something that’s none o’ your business, pepperbelly. Why don’t you just ride on outta here?”

  “Wait a minute,” one of the others said. “Look at that horse he’s ridin’. Where’d a Mex get a fine-lookin’ horse like that? Most of ’em ride donkeys, don’t they?”

 
“I’ll bet he stole it,” the third man said.

  Frank said, “No, Señor, this is my horse. I am not a thief.”

  “Well, if you don’t want to be strung up as one anyway, light a shuck, Pancho,” the first man said. “This don’t concern you.”

  Frank gestured toward the wounded man on the ground. “What did he do?”

  “Gave us some lip, that’s what he did. And if you don’t want what he got in return for it, you’ll turn around and get your Meskin ass outta here.”

  “Wait a minute, Dewey,” one of the other men said. “Don’t you reckon the greaser ought to leave that horse here with us, until we find out for sure whether he’s lyin’ about stealin’ it?”

  “Yeah,” Dewey said. “That’s a right fine idea, Terrall.” He moved his hand closer to the butt of his gun. “Get down off that horse, Mex. It’s too good an animal for the likes of you.”

  “You would take my horse, Señor?” Frank said.

  “Damn right! Now do what I told you.”

  Frank had looked the men over in the fading light as best he could, and he had them pegged as drifting hard cases, the sort of scum who would shoot down an unarmed man. They probably planned to rob this place, and there was no telling what they would do to the rancher’s wife. Frank remembered a time when a decent woman would have been safe from even the most hardened, ruthless owlhoot. But the West was changing, and not necessarily for the better. That was “progress” for you.

  “It seems to me, Señor, that if there is a horse thief here, it is you,” Frank said.

  “Why, you dirty pepperbelly!” the one called Terrall exclaimed.

  “But if you’re bound and determined to try to take my horse,” Frank went on, “then you’ve got it to do.” With his left hand, he pushed the sombrero back off his head so that it hung by its chin strap.

  “Dewey,” the third man said nervously, “he ain’t a greaser! He’s a white man, ridin’ an Appaloosa, and he’s got a big dog with him—”

  “Son of a bitch!” Terrall burst out. “He’s—”

  “I don’t give a damn who he is!” Dewey yelled. His hand stabbed toward his gun. “Hook and draw, you bastard!”