Romeros. With a frown, he thought of the foreman as he shifted his weight in the saddle. Had that skulking wolf gone back to Falcon’s Lair for help? Not likely. He’d figure out a way to save his own skin, thinking Bandit and the girl were probably finished. If Bandit survived all this, rescued the girl, he’d deal with that bastard, and finally do the honorable thing. Even a pistolero was capable of honor.
The day was going to be hot, though it was only the middle of May. Somewhere up ahead, the woman he loved was the hostage of three outlaws. Setting his square jaw in a grim line, he urged the pinto forward.
That Saturday was the longest day of Amethyst’s life. The May sun burned her delicate skin as the four of them rode north. She did everything she could to delay their progress, knowing the plan called for Bandit to ride into the outlaw’s camp on the San Rodrigo River about dark that night. They planned to ambush him, but if she could delay them a little here, a little there, it was possible Bandit might catch up to them unexpectedly. As they rode, she watched the sun move relentlessly across the sky.
Colonel Mackenzie glanced up at the sun, wiped the sweat from his neck.
Lieutenant Carter grinned, took off his hat, mopped his face. “Hot enough for you?”
Mackenzie frowned but resisted the urge to snap at the officer over the stupid remark. Mackenzie knew he had a reputation for being irritable, short-tempered. Sometimes he couldn’t help it. His war wounds pained him, and his duty sometimes weighed too heavily on his thin shoulders. “I’ll bet it’s up in the nineties. The only thing we can be thankful for is that the rainy season hasn’t started. Mud would delay us, especially those heavily loaded pack mules.”
Carter nodded. “You really think we need that much ammunition, supplies?”
“I’m set for anything. Dashing in without enough ammunition, leaving the pack train behind is the sort of thing Custer would do.” He immediately regretted his rash remark. Mackenzie was a professional soldier, loath to criticize any fellow officer, and he and Custer had both been “boy generals” in the Civil War.
Carter said, “We may end up in the history books after this weekend.”
Mackenzie snorted. “If we don’t get shot by a firing squad of Mexicans or court-martialed when we get back! ”
“I’ve been wanting to write a book about all our adventures fighting Indians.”
The colonel laughed in spite of himself. “Who’d want to read about that?”
“I don’t know, maybe someone.” Carter stroked his mustache. “If I ever write it, I intend to dedicate it to you and the men of the Fourth.”
Mackenzie smiled, shifted his weight on his horse. “I don’t think anyone’ll be interested in cavalry fighting Indians along the border. We aren’t colorful enough.”
“But it is exciting and heroic,” the lieutenant insisted.
Mackenzie frowned. “The one who’ll get the glory and the books written about him will probably be Custer. You know he always takes newspaper reporters with him when he’s out on a campaign. He got out of that court-martial, and last I heard, he’ll probably go north against the Sioux.”
Carter wiped the sweat from his face. “We aren’t having any trouble with the Sioux.”
“There’s rumors of gold in the Black Hills,” Mackenzie explained. “Even a rumor will send white men looking; then the Sioux will get angry over the trespassing, and we’ll have an Indian war up there, too.”
Carter gave him an admiring look. “You’ve done a damned good job down here in Texas, sir.”
“Good, hell! Had my own horse stolen. Have to admire Quanah, though. We haven’t seen the last of him.”
Carter only grunted in agreement. The Comanche were led by the young half-breed chief, Quanah Parker, whose mother had been a white girl stolen by the Comanche as a child. Quanah had managed to steal Mackenzie’s favorite horse, and now rode it. The colonel both hated and admired the young chief.
Mackenzie thought aloud. “The wet sponges under the men’s hats seem to be helping some. I don’t think we’ve had any troopers collapse from sunstroke yet.”
Carter turned in his saddle, looked back at the column. “We’ve got a long way to go, sir, and the heat will be hard on the horses.”
Mackenzie looked back over his shoulder. The alkali dust whirled up under the hundreds of hooves, coating the lathered horses and the sweating men. It gave them all a ghostly appearance. The closer they got to the Rio Grande, the more desolate the terrain became. Cactus stuck its spiny thorns out to catch the unwary who got too far from the trail, and the mesquite blossoms just beginning to open smelled almost sickeningly sweet in the May air. When he ran his tongue over his lips, he tasted grit and salty sweat. “Let’s rest the horses, Captain.”
“Yes, sir.” The captain cantered back to pass the order, and Mackenzie reined in, swung down with a sigh. Now why would anybody want to write a book about the misery they’d endured chasing Indians? It wasn’t exciting and heroic. No, mostly it was hot and boring with little to break the monotony of a frontier fort.
Mackenzie sought the scant shade of a live oak, dreaming about ice. A small piece packed in sawdust could be shipped from San Antonio, but at great expense. He sipped the lukewarm water in his canteen, and thought about big glasses of ice, water so cold it made his teeth hurt. He thought about it a minute, then smiled. No, Carter would never write that book. If he did, who’d want to read it?
What he hadn’t told Carter was that the column was moving at a leisurely pace for only one reason; Mackenzie was gauging it so they’d arrive at the Rio Grande at about dark Saturday night. If there were spies anywhere in the area, he didn’t want them reporting to the Federales or scattered war parties that the U.S. Army was crossing into forbidden territory. Once they crossed the river, the pace would have to pick up. The Indian camp lay about sixty miles below the border. He planned to take that sleeping camp by surprise at dawn Sunday before the few warriors there had time to organize their defense.
He looked up at the sun as he swung back into the saddle. Saturday was going to be a long, hot day, and the men would have to ride at a fast pace all night to be at the Indian camp by sunup. It was just as well they didn’t know that, didn’t even know about the attack. He watched the men remount. Most of them looked hot and bored, figuring this to be a routine scouting expedition that would turn around at the river. He signaled to the Seminole scouts to lead out again. One look at their dark, eager faces told him they knew but would keep silent. The legalities were lost on them anyway. They thought only of a chance to attack their tribal enemies.
He listened to the officers shouting orders along the column, the sound drifting on the stifling air. Four hundred men and a long pack train of ammunition and supplies that must not fall into the hands of the Indians and be used against the soldiers. The responsibility weighed heavily on his slight shoulders because of the lack of written orders. He looked down at his crippled right hand as he urged his horse forward. Mangoheute. Three Fingers, he thought wryly. With any luck, Three Fingers and the Fourth Cavalry will meet the Kickapoo, Lipan, and Mescalero Apache in battle at dawn on Sunday, May 18, 1873.
With a sigh, he straightened his weary frame, ever the professional soldier. The column swung out again behind him, the men riding in formations of four, Captain McLaughlen’s gray-horse I Company ready for action.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Old Cougar and his grandson passed the long, hot day repairing bows made of mulberry wood, talking of long-ago raids against Apache enemies.
The late afternoon sent long shadows across the wickiup as a brave galloped into the camp, dismounted. “Great leader, we watch for the gringo riders as you ask.”
Cougar smiled with satisfaction at his grandson. “Do they still ride north, those four?”
The brave nodded. “At the rate they ride, they will probably camp downriver tonight near our Kickapoo friends’ village.”
Sun Shield scrambled to his feet, his dark eyes bright with triump
h. “Now, Grandfather Ndolkah! Now we ride out and attack them!”
But Cougar only smiled and stood up slowly. “No, we won’t do that.” He said to the scout, “Keep watch on them as they near us. Let me know their moves. We shall share meat tonight with friends at the Kickapoo-Lipan camp.”
“But Grandfather—!”
Cougar waved him to silence, dismissed the scout with a curt nod. Then he turned back to the boy. “Sun Shield, if you are ever to be a great war leader, you must learn when to wait. Why spend time and energy going out to the enemy if patience will bring him to you? We shall spring our trap when the hated gringos camp for the night.”
The young Apache smiled with slow understanding. “I will remember that, Grandfather. Everything you teach me, I shall remember when I am a war leader. Still, our warriors in camp now are as few as leaves in winter with most of the braves gone west on the hunt.”
The old man reached for his war lance. “With the element of surprise and an unsuspecting quarry, we shall not need many men. Tonight you earn your first honors against the enemies of your people.”
“I want no honors, I want vengeance against the three who raped my mother, tortured my father, and left me for dead.”
“You will get both tonight when you bloody your lance for the first time,” Cougar promised solemnly. “Now let us ride down the river to share supper with my old friend, the Lipan chief, Costilietos. After dark, we will creep up on the gringos and pounce on them.”
The boy looked down at his breastplace thoughtfully. “I have waited five years for this moment.”
The old chief felt a spasm of pain. “I, too, have waited, fearing that old age would take my life before I could revenge my son. Tonight we will pay back in blood what the gringos did to your parents!”
Colonel Mackenzie glanced up at the late Saturday afternoon sun with satisfaction, then signaled another rest for the sweating men and horses. He had planned to keep to a leisurely pace, which was just as well since the day had turned so hot. The regiment would reach the Rio Grande at about dusk. The scouts had told him of a shallow ford where the cavalry and the string of pack mules could cross the river after dark. Four hundred American cavalry troops riding below the forbidden river would be hard enough to keep secret, even after dark. What would he do if some sharp-eyed peasant or brave alerted the Federales?
Yes, today he had set a slow pace from camp to the river. But once they crossed it at dark, he would have to set a killing pace. Before Sunday dawned, he had to cover almost sixty miles of hostile Mexican country. Precise timing was essential if he were to have his troops in place to attack the sleeping Indian camp as Sunday dawned.
Saturday night. Amethyst slid from her horse, too exhausted to care what happened now that it was growing dark and they had finally reached the outlaws’ camp. If they felt safe enough from pursuit to rape her tonight, she was almost past caring.
Wearily, she took the coffee pot, went to the river to fill it. While she dawdled, she listened to the three men talk. Big ’Un started a small fire, unsaddled the horses.
Finally Petty seemed to notice her. “Nagnab it, gal, where’s that coffee?”
She turned, hurried back to the fire.
Because she really didn’t know much about campfire cooking, it took her awhile to get coffee made and a skillet going, full of bacon cut with Petty’s borrowed butcher knife. She tried to sneak the knife into the folds of her riding habit but got caught at it.
“No, you don’t!” Petty said, grabbing the knife from her. “I may look stupid, but I know enough to hang onto my own knife!”
The trio lounged around the little campfire, leaning against their saddles while Amethyst finished the cooking, fixed them each a tin plate of steaming bacon and beans, even managed to pat out some corn dodgers and fry them in the sizzling bacon grease.
“Hey, you.” Petty grinned at her. “Bring me a cup of coffee and just dip your finger in it. I like my coffee like I like my women, hot and sweet.”
Big ’Un guffawed. “He likes it black, too.”
Petty’s face went livid, and the giant Yankee laughed.
Ringo gobbled his food, spoke with his mouth full. “I swear, Big ‘Un, don’t you two ever get tired of jawin’ at each other like that?”
Amethyst gave him a slight smile. “I don’t know why a big-time gunfighter like you bothers with the likes of them.”
Ringo’s eyes widened with pleased surprise at the compliment and he stopped chewing, took a more interested look at her.
But Big ’Un slapped his thigh and laughed. “Hell, honey, he ain’t no big-time gunfighter! Used to be, before he pickled hisself in alcohol over some gal!”
“That’s right,” Petty agreed, pausing in shoveling his beans in. “Ringo’s hands shake so bad, he couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a double-barreled shotgun.”
Ringo turned dark red; his fist clenched on his fork.
But Amethyst gave him a flirtatious smile. “I don’t believe that.”
“Hey, Ringo.” Petty laughed. “The gal likes you!”
Ringo stared at her a moment, then went back to eating.
Amethyst got herself a plate of food, a cup of steaming coffee; and she slumped near the fire. The desert night grew cooler. Stars hung in the midnight sky like bits of ice. Somewhere a coyote howled, a night bird called.
Ringo stiffened. “I don’t recognize that bird.”
“So what?” Big ’Un shrugged. “Mexico’s got a lot of birds we don’t have in Texas.”
Ringo thought a minute, reached for his whiskey bottle. “Reckon that’s so.”
Amethyst held the tin cup in both hands, bone-tired and grateful for the heat from the steaming coffee. Her little mare whinnied, looking toward her. She stared back at Heartaches in helpless frustration. “Sorry, girl, no nice barn and oats out here. You’ll have to do with grass.”
Petty laughed in derision. “Damned horse as spoiled and used to high livin’ as her owner. What breed nag is that, anyhow? It’s got a strange gait, kinda reminds me of that Tennessee Walker Captain Shawn O’Bannion rode.”
If they had any idea Heartaches was a valuable Paso Fino, they’d sell her. Amethyst shrugged. “Just a blood bay horse, a little small for most men’s taste.”
Ringo yawned. “You two men get some shuteye. I’ll take the first watch. Come here, honey, I’ll tie you back up.”
“Ain’t we gonna get a chance at the gal now?” Big ’Un glared at him.
“Yeah,” Petty drawled, “I’m ready for some sugar.”
She couldn’t read the expression on Ringo’s face as she gave him her most pitiful look, her heart pounding hard with fear.
“Naw,” Ringo said, “Not tonight, anyhow. She starts screamin’, who knows who might hear her? Sound carries a long way in the desert.”
Big ’Un glowered at him. “Hell, it wouldn’t be no trouble to shut her up!”
As Amethyst held her breath, Ringo put his hand on the butt of his pistol. “I may not be the fastest gun in Texas anymore, Big ’Un, but I can still outdraw you.”
There was a long, tense moment during which the three men glared at each other as if waiting for someone to make the first move.
“Nagnab it,” Petty grumbled, “I reckon it ain’t worth a fight. There’s plenty of time for her after we kill her boyfriend and get back across the border.”
He and the giant Yankee got their blankets and spread them close to the fire, both grumbling under their breaths.
She rewarded Ringo with a grateful look. “Thank you for that,” she said softly.
“Forget it. Now where’s that rawhide thong?”
She held out her raw, red wrists for him to see. “Ringo, do you have to tie me up? Look, my wrists are already bleeding and I’m not going anywhere in the dark. I’m more afraid of what’s out there—”she nodded over her shoulder—“than I am of you.”
He took her small wrists in his hands. “That bastard, Petty. I didn’t know he had tied
you so tight.”
She looked up at him, her lips pouting, half-opened. With her hands untied, if the trio should all doze off, she could take the little mare, scatter the other horses, and head back south.
Ringo took his rifle, moved out to sit on a big rock a few yards from the camp. She hesitated, and he said, “What you waitin’ for? Get some sleep.”
She came over to him, put her hand on his arm. Even from here, she could smell the sour whiskey on his breath. “I—I’m afraid of those other two if I get over by the fire,” she whispered. “Can I wrap up in my blanket, sit here with you?”
He shrugged. “Reckon so.”
“I’m cold. Let’s have a drink.”
He offered his bottle. “I can quit any time I want to,” he explained. “I just don’t want to.”
“I understand. You don’t have to make excuses to me, Ringo.” She took the bottle, pretended to take a big swig from it when in reality she barely wet her lips with the strong, raw liquor before handing it back to him.
The other two slept now, snoring loudly.
He hesitated, looking at her as if seeing her for the very first time. “You’re more than pretty, you know that?”
Amethyst looked up at him from under her eyelashes. “I was just thinking you’re different from those other two.”
Ringo reached out, put one trembling hand on her face; and she forced herself not to recoil from his touch. “You know, honey—”
“Amethyst,” she said softly, “like the jewel.”
He smiled, his fingers trailing along her jaw. “Fits you. I hadn’t realized ’til now that you’ve got violet eyes, sort of a smoky, almost purple color like a Texas sunrise.”
With great self-control, she pressed her face against his hand rather than shuddering. “Ringo, what’s going to happen to me?”
He didn’t meet her look. “You can go back with your sweetheart if he brings the money tomorrow.”
Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) Page 37
