Blood and Gold (Outlaw Ranger Book 3)

by James Reasoner

  Outlaw Ranger #3

  Blood and Gold

  James Reasoner

  Outlaw Ranger #3 Blood and Gold by James Reasoner

  Copyright© 2015 James Reasoner

  Cover Design Livia Reasoner

  Rough Edges Press

  www.roughedgespress.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Chapter 1

  Francisco Guzman was scared of ghosts. He knew they existed. His grandmother had told him many tales of how restless spirits wandered the earth, unable to find peace in their graves.

  He could believe that many of them were roaming this canyon tonight, ready to take their spectral vengeance on anyone who dared to venture into the forbidding, high-walled passage.

  Unfortunately, Barranca del Zopilote—Buzzard's Canyon, the gringos called it—was the quickest way to the settlement of Cemetery Butte and the smelter owned by Señor Martin Rainey. There were other routes from the mine in the mountains on the other side of the border, but they would take the mules carrying the gold many miles out of their way. This, Señor Rainey would not allow. The sooner the gold was safely at the smelter, the better, as far as he was concerned.

  Silvery moonlight washed down over the canyon from the glowing orb overhead. The steep walls cast impenetrable shadows along the sides, and Francisco was convinced that was where the phantoms lurked.

  The mule train, fourteen animals long, each loaded with several hundred pounds of ore, stayed in the center of the canyon where the light was better. One man led each mule. Francisco had the sixth one from the front. Six gringo guards on horseback accompanied the mule train: two riders in front, two behind, and one on each flank. They all moved as fast as they could. Señor Rainey feared that someone would try to steal his gold, so he insisted the ore be moved at night, as quickly as possible, straight from the mine to the smelter.

  Steep cliffs rose along both sides of the Rio Grande for miles, but the canyon provided a way through. It ran all the way to the river on the Mexican side and continued northward on the American side. When the river wasn't up from rains, which were quite rare here in West Texas, the mules could ford it easily.

  And so, every month or so, the men loaded the mules and made this dash across the border...although since the mules were, well, mules, they didn't exactly dash.

  Francisco had made two of these trips before, and nothing had happened either time. That didn't really give him any confidence, though. The spirits could merely be waiting for the right moment to strike.

  The bells hung from the mules' necks provided soft music for the scene. The steady clop of their hooves against the rocky canyon floor counterpointed the dissonant melody. None of it did anything to soothe Francisco's nerves.

  A large, dark shape loomed up beside him, causing him to flinch. A man laughed, and Francisco realized the shape was a man on horseback, the outrider on the left flank.

  "Sort of jumpy there, aren't you, 'Cisco?" the man asked.

  "Sí, Señor Evans," Francisco replied in the English he had learned from the priest in the village of Esperanza, downriver where his grandmother lived, where she had raised Francisco. "I do not like this place. I never have."

  "I'm not all that fond of it myself," Ben Evans said. "It's sort of spooky-like."

  "Sí," Francisco agreed fervently.

  "The name don't help matters none. You know why it's called Buzzard's Canyon?"

  "No, señor. Why?"

  Evans laughed again and said, "Hell, I was hopin' you could tell me. I don't have any idea. But it must be because something died up in here sometime, and folks saw buzzards circlin' over it."

  "Something...or somebody," Francisco muttered.

  "Yeah, could be." Evans shook his head and went on, "Well, we're gettin' paid for takin' the gold through here, so I reckon that's all that really matters, isn't it?"

  "Sí, señor," Francisco said again. It was true that he was getting paid.

  He just wasn't getting paid much. Señor Rainey had not gotten to be a rich man by being generous to those he employed. Still, it was more than he could make trying to scratch out a living as a farmer.

  A shout from up ahead made everyone stop. Carl Swann, one of the men leading the mule train, turned his horse and rode back to talk to Evans and the other flanker, Pete Jackson.

  "Thought I spotted something up ahead," Swann said. "We'll hold the train right here for a minute while I go take a look."

  "You're thinkin' it might be an ambush, Carl?" Evans asked.

  "I dunno." Swann frowned, which made his heavy-featured face look even more like a bulldog's. "I couldn't really tell what it was I saw. Something was there, and then all of a sudden it wasn't."

  Francisco crossed himself when he heard that, thinking again of restless spirits.

  Swann pulled his Winchester from its saddle sheath and rode up the canyon. The other five guards pulled in closer to the mules and their valuable cargo.

  Swann had been gone for less than a minute when gunfire erupted from atop the canyon walls. Something struck a smashing blow against Francisco's shoulder and knocked him against the mule he'd been leading. The mule jumped away skittishly and Francisco fell.

  The blasts echoed back and forth in the canyon, mixing with shouted curses, cries of fear, and the screams of wounded animals. The riflemen on the heights didn't target the mules, but they shot the horses out from under the guards. As Francisco struggled to sit up despite the pain that filled him, he saw Ben Evans thrown from the saddle as his mount went down.

  Evans had yanked his rifle free as the horse staggered. He rolled, came up on one knee, and returned the fire, triggering half a dozen shots at the muzzle flashes on top of the eastern wall as fast as he could work the Winchester's lever. Then he surged to his feet, turned, and ran toward Francisco.

  "'Cisco!" the man called. "Are you hit?"

  Before Francisco could answer, Evans stopped short and arched his back. Francisco knew a bullet had just driven into the guard's body from behind. The next instant a shot struck Evans in the head. Something hot, wet, and sticky splattered over Francisco's face as the man collapsed right in front of him. He knew it was Evans' blood and brains he felt dripping down his cheeks.

  He groaned and sagged back, sick with the knowledge that he was going to die here tonight, in this lonely, shadow-haunted canyon, just as he had feared.

  It wasn't ghosts who had killed him, though. Ghosts didn't fire rifles.

  The shooting continued for a while as Francisco drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally he became aware that the gunfire had stopped. The canyon was quiet again except for the sighing of the wind that blew through it.

  A few minutes later he heard horses coming.

  "Make sure they're all dead," a man ordered harshly.

  Francisco was sick with pain from his wounded shoulder, but somehow he retained enough presence of mind to realize that he might have a chance to survive this ambush after all. His face was covered with blood. He was sure he looked dead. If he could lie still enough, maybe the men would be convinced he was done for and wouldn't check his body closely...

  "Well, that went off without a hitch," a familiar voice said.

  Carl Swann.

  Now Francisco understood why Swann had halted the mule train. He was making it easier for the thieves and killers to wipe out ev
eryone else. He had sold out Señor Rainey and the rest of the men with the mule train.

  "You did good, Carl," the other man said. Francisco was curious about him but didn't dare open his eyes. He lay there breathing so shallowly it would be difficult to see the rise and fall of his chest, especially in the uncertain moonlight.

  "I earned my money, that's for damned sure," Swann said. "I drank and played cards with those men. It wasn't easy settin' 'em up to be killed like this."

  "But you managed, didn't you?" the other man said in a mocking tone.

  "Damn it, you got what you were after. Just gimme my money and let me get outta here. I want to put some miles behind me. When Martin Rainey realizes I'm the only one who survived, he'll know I sold him out. I want to be as far away as possible by then."

  "Sure, you'll get what's coming to you."

  "What—"

  Swann didn't finish whatever he was about to say. The boom of a gunshot cut him off. Francisco had to open his eyes and look then. He saw a familiar figure topple out of the saddle and fall to the ground like a sack of wet sand.

  "You had too much betrayal in your blood, Swann," the other man said as he slipped a revolver back in its holster. "Never could have trusted you not to talk."

  A light footstep sounded close beside Francisco. He steeled himself not to react to it.

  But it didn't matter. Someone said, "This one flinched when your gun went off."

  It was a woman's voice.

  "Look at me," she said.

  Francisco was powerless to resist. His eyes were already open. His gaze swung over, and in the silvery moonlight he saw the face of beauty.

  And a gun. Flame gouted from the muzzle, and that was the last thing Francisco Guzman ever saw.

  Chapter 2

  G.W. Braddock leaned forward, studied the chessboard for a long moment, then moved a knight.

  "Believe that's check," he said.

  The man in the brown robe on the other side of the table moved his king. Braddock gave chase with the knight but couldn't put the king in check again. The priest's queen swept all the way to the other side of the board and took Braddock's rook.

  "And checkmate," the priest said.

  Braddock laughed and said, "You did that on purpose. You lured me into a trap."

  The priest cocked an eyebrow and said, "The object of the game, my friend." He smiled. "And it is good to hear you laugh. That is something I have not experienced very much."

  That was true. Braddock's face had a naturally grim cast to it that wasn't helped by the scar running up his forehead and into his sandy brown hair. In the light of the candle that sat on a shelf in the priest's quarters at the mission, his lean features were deeply tanned, which made the white scar stand out.

  Even if his disposition hadn't been rather solemn to start with, the events of his recent life hadn't given Braddock much to laugh about. He had been a Texas Ranger, devoted to his job as a lawman, until a shake-up of the organization prompted by political foes had caused him to lose his badge.

  That hadn't stopped him from continuing to hunt down the same sort of vicious owlhoots and killers he had brought to justice as a Ranger. He had no legal authority in the state of Texas or anywhere else. In fact, taking the law into his own hands as he had done on several occasions had made him into an outlaw in the eyes of the Rangers. At one point, his former boss, Captain John Hughes, had even sent men after him to arrest him.

  They hadn't taken him into custody, though, and now he spent most of his time in the border village of Esperanza, on the southern side of the Rio Grande, where the priest had nursed him back to health after one of his adventures had left him gravely wounded. He was safe from capture here, and the man of God had become Braddock's only real friend.

  That wasn't enough to hold him, though, when he heard of injustice north of the border, of crimes that needed the attention of a Texas Ranger. The bullet-marked badge Braddock carried might not have any official standing anymore, but in his mind that didn't remove his duty to deliver justice where it was needed.

  "Another game?" the padre asked as he began putting the chess pieces back in their starting positions, but before Braddock could answer, a soft knock sounded on the door.

  It was evening, time soon for Braddock to head back to the hut he had claimed as his own, and the look of surprise on the priest's lined face indicated that he hadn't expected any other visitors. He got to his feet, but Braddock uncoiled from his chair, too, and motioned for the padre to stay where he was.

  Normally, Braddock didn't wear a gun while he was playing chess with the priest. He had taken off the gunbelt when he came in and hung it from a peg on the wall near the door. He went to it now and smoothly drew the Colt from its holster.

  Esperanza was a peaceful village these days, but it hadn't always been that way. Mexican bandits, American outlaws, brutal Rurales, all had taken their toll on the place and its inhabitants. Braddock had been in the middle of that violence, and he might still have some enemies who had trailed him here. He wasn't going to take a chance on his friend opening the door to a bullet.

  But when Braddock pulled the latch string and let the door swing open, he saw the visitor was no threat. The old woman who stood there caught her breath and took a step back as she saw the heavy revolver gripped in Braddock's strong brown hand.

  Quickly, he lowered the gun and said, "I'm sorry, señora. I mean you no harm."

  She crossed herself and told him, "You have frightened me out of years I cannot afford to lose, Señor Braddock!"

  He recalled seeing her around the village, but he didn't know her name. However, it was no surprise that she knew who he was. Everyone in Esperanza was aware of the grim-faced Texan now living in their midst.

  The priest came up behind Braddock, who stepped aside to let him smooth things over. While the priest ushered the woman in, Braddock slid the Colt back into leather.

  "What can I do for you, Señora Dominguez?" the priest asked.

  "I am here about my grandson," the old woman said. "The son of my daughter. Francisco."

  "Of course. I remember Francisco. He went to work in the mines upriver, didn't he?"

  "He did." Señora Dominguez drew in a deep breath. "But now he is dead."

  "Dios Mio," the priest said under his breath. "Blessed Mother, what happened? An accident in the mine?"

  He took the old woman's arm and steered her into the chair at the table where Braddock had been sitting earlier as they played chess. She sat there looking like she wanted to put her hands over her face and burst into tears, but she was able to control herself.

  She couldn't do anything about the pain that had settled deeply into her eyes, though. It looked like it would always be there.

  "Francisco's death was no accident," she said. "He was killed. Murdered. Shot down like a dog from ambush, along with nine other men."

  "How did this happen?" the priest asked.

  "Where did this happen?" Braddock added.

  The smile that had been on his face earlier was long gone now.

  "Francisco and the men with him had taken a mule train across the Rio Grande, bound for the smelter in Cemetery Butte. The mules were carrying gold ore. The men were attacked in Barranca del Zopilote."

  "Buzzard's Canyon," Braddock murmured.

  "Sí," Señora Dominguez said, nodding. "It has always been known as a place of death. But it is the quickest way from Señor Rainey's mine in the mountains to his smelter in Texas."

  "Rainey?" The name was vaguely familiar to Braddock.

  "Martin Rainey," the priest supplied. "A rich man. And you know what the scripture says about a rich man."

  "Easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven." Braddock nodded. His mother had been a Bible-reading woman. The scriptures had never taken with his father, whose only holy book had been the Rangers' "Bible", the list of wanted outlaws carried by every man who wore the silver star in a silver circle.


  "I should say that I don't know Rainey or much about him," the padre went on. "Only his reputation, which is that of a hard, ruthless man."

  "To get back to the ambush," Braddock said to Señora Dominguez, "do you know exactly what happened?"

  She shook her head and said, "Only that the men with the mule train were killed and the gold stolen. One of Francisco's friends from here in the village, who worked at the mine with him, came and told me." Now she couldn't hold back a sniffle. "The bodies...were taken to the gringo settlement...and buried. It was closer."

  Unfortunately, in this climate, proximity was often the most important consideration in where someone who had died was laid to rest.

  "I am truly sorry, señora," the priest said. "If you'd like, I can send word to Cemetery Butte and see if it would be possible to have Francisco's...remains...brought here and interred in our churchyard..."

  She shook her head with surprising vehemence and said, "That would not change anything, padre. My only living relative would still be dead. No..." She turned her head. "I came to see Señor Braddock."

  Something began to stir inside Braddock. He had started to have an inkling of where this conversation was headed even before she turned that intent, dark-eyed gaze on him. Now he was certain, because he could see the thirst for vengeance shining in those eyes.

  "You want me to find the men who did this terrible thing," he said quietly.

  "Sí, señor. My Francisco must be avenged, and so must the other men who were murdered."

  The priest said, "El Señor Dios has told us that vengeance belongs to Him, señora, not to us here in this life."

  "Then do not call it vengeance I seek. Call it justice."

  "That's just what I was about to say," Braddock drawled.

  "But Señor Braddock is no longer a—"

  Braddock stopped the priest with a lifted hand.

  "Some things never change, padre," he said. His hand strayed to his shirt pocket, and without thinking, he touched the object he carried there. He never pinned on the badge unless he crossed the Rio Grande, but it was always with him.