Blue (Ben Blue Book 2)

by Lou Bradshaw

  Fortunately, I was saved from a life of a lunch lady by the arrival of Filipe Vega and three vaqueros. I briefly told Filipe what had taken place here and asked if one of his men could stay and wait for the posse. Julian was chosen because his English was better than the others.

  I told Julian, “Tell the sheriff that there could be as many as thirteen outlaws, and they had three hostages, a priest, a nun, and Linda Tucker. The Navajo tracker, Rubio, is up ahead and we will try to join him.” I had him repeat it back, and the sister said she would help him remember it.

  As we were mounting, the good sister asked, “Will they be all right? Are they in grave danger?”

  I told her, “Sister, I’m not a very good liar, so I won’t even try. Yes, they’re in a very serious situation. All I can tell you is that we’ll do everything we can to bring them back alive, unharmed, and unmolested. There will likely be more than forty men on their trail all with the same determination.”

  The four of us took off at a pretty good clip. The trail was easy enough to follow with so many riders. They were heading for the Sangre de Cristos. It didn’t take a Navajo scout to figure that out. This part of the trail was well used and showed a good deal of travel coming and going.

  At one point a trail forked off to the right of the main route. There were tracks leading in that direction. Beside the fork were two stones. One was a pumpkin size with another on top of it off center in the direction of the main trail. Rubio wasn’t that easily fooled.

  So we stayed on the main trail for another few miles until we found another marker at a seldom used trail. This time the larger stone had two separated smaller stones on it. One of the stones favored the direction of the main trail and the other stone in the direction of the lesser trail. Beside the smaller trail, there was a quarter inch thick sapling that had been broken and was leaning in that direction.

  “What do you make of that, Benito?”

  “They’ve split up… Some are following the main trail and some are taking this side trail. Rubio is taking the side trail. Something tells him that it’s the one we want.”

  “How can you tell? How would he know which group to follow?” Filipe asked.

  “He’s probably picked up something about the weight of the men riding. Milo is a big man and a heavy man… No, here it is… one of them is riding his grandson’s horse… probably one of the hostages. The hostages would be with the leaders more than likely. I gave the boy that horse, and I’m well familiar with the tracks. In fact I made this shoe for it about six months ago.” I showed them the right rear print. I said a silent thank you to old crazy Jim.

  We arranged for one of the vaqueros to wait for the posse and tell them that they had split up, and then to bring some of them with him. We’d leave a blazed trail that shouldn’t be hard to follow. Both trails were heading up, but the one we were to follow went up a lot quicker. It was going straight up through rocks and pines, with drop offs of several hundred feet.

  Switchback after switchback meant we were covering miles but not altitude. It was slow going, and the worst part was we didn’t know where we were going. All we knew, was we were getting farther and farther into the wilds of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  I was hoping against hope that Filipe had some grub because what I had packed wouldn’t carry us very far. It wouldn’t do to be using a gun, even if we were to scare up a deer or elk. Setting snares of traps wouldn’t do us any good, since we were on the move. We might just get a little hungry before this was over. I looked at my companions, but neither of them gave me any indications of being Injun enough to use a bow and arrow even if they had one… which they didn’t.

  We crossed over the shoulder of a mighty tall mountain. There was still plenty of snow on top. I was just thankful that we weren’t going up there, or at least I hoped we weren’t. We were on almost level ground at least where we were, although it was still plenty rough going. After several hours on the shoulder we started down.

  It was the same as on the other side of the mountain except instead of leaning forward we were leaning backward. It was more switchbacks, more streams crossing the trail, more boulders, and more pines.

  We found Rubio waiting for us as the sun was painting the mountains to the east. He had set up camp in a small cove about halfway down the east slope. He had a fire built and there was a haunch of venison on the spit. A small stream ran nearby, it was probably snowmelt. We’d been going through streams and around waterfalls all afternoon.

  “Ho, Benblue. This all the posse you could find?”

  “With you leading the way, I didn’t think we’d need any more.” I told him. “We left two men back along the way, one at the school and one where they split up. The posse will split up and we’ll be getting more men and guns in the morning… I hope.”

  I introduced Rubio to Filipe and Arturo, the vaquero. “Ah so this is the famous Rubio,” Filipe asked. “I have heard many stories of Rubio the Apache Hunter.”

  Rubio’s face lit up and he stood taller. I told Filipe, “Don’t get him started, and keep your hand on your tobacco pouch.”

  “Benblue is why red men don’t laugh.” He told Filipe.

  “But Senor Benblu,” Filipe said with a chuckle, “I am honored to meet the famous Rubio. I will listen to what he has to say, and I will share my tobacco.”

  “Wise man.” Was all I said.

  “Rubio,” I said, “that’s fresh meat, weren’t you afraid to use your rifle with them so close by?”

  “They not so close, Benblue. They move fast and hide trail good. Good Injun in that bunch. Not so good Injun like Rubio… but good Injun.”

  We settled in for the evening. The place where camp was set up was facing another slope of the same mountain, with a deep canyon between the slopes. The canyon floor was probably a thousand to twelve hundred feet below, and the slope we were facing was at least a half a mile away, but we would have to ride more than five miles to get to it. If that was our destination. Both slopes were thick with pine.

  One mountain nudged another with broken rocky valleys in between. Sometimes it was hard to tell where one mountain started and another stopped. It was rugged, but beautiful country. I made myself a promise to come through here again under less troublesome circumstances.

  As the shadows crept up the sides of the surrounding mountains and the canyons and valleys fell into blackness. I scanned the surrounding slopes with my field glasses, looking for signs of smoke. I saw nothing, but I kept looking until it was too dark to see anything… except a fire, and there it was. It was across the valley to the east, and at that distance it was no more than a twinkle, but it shouldn’t have been there.

  I called Rubio, and showed him. He took his bearings by the peaks of two mountains. Then he drew a line in the dirt aiming right at the light. Suddenly the light went out. Someone was smart enough to put it out… and in a hurry.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning we were riding when the sun first started to show a gray halo across the eastern sky. We made good time going down the mountain, considering the switchbacks, the rough trail, and the forest. Reaching the narrow valley below, we ignored the false trail to the right and went straight across the valley fording several streams and a fast running river. Shortly after crossing that swift shallow river, we picked up the trail. They had started off to the right, then took to the water and came back, hoping we’d lose the scent in the canyons. We had gained a half a day because someone wasn’t paying attention to the fire.

  Rubio set his sights on where the fire had been and we took a bee line for it. The valley was well grown over with marsh grasses in some places, but it was mostly pine and cedar. An hour later we found their camp and Rubio went over it with a fine tooth comb. “Eight mans and two womans.” He said. “Seven mans with boots. One mans no heel no spur. Womans no boot.”

  He poked around in the ashes of the fire and found some bones and a broken whiskey bottle. “No eat this morning. All cold.” Scouting arou
nd a bit more he said, “Womans sleep here, no spurs there, others scattered.” Then he said, “Ten horses… no packhorse.”

  That gave me some feeling of relief. At least none of them bedded down with the women. But how long would they hold off. Was Father Paul keeping the women safe, or was it because they still had whiskey for distraction and pleasure? But whiskey was a two edged knife. It could dull a man’s mind and at the same time fire up his hunger. Who was that seventh man? Did one of hired men ride along with the family members? I had a hunch that the unknown man was the trail savvy one.

  So far so good. We’d gained time on them and the women would slow them down. The sheer size or the party would slow them down. Hiding tracks of ten horses couldn’t be an easy thing. We were now on a low hog back mountain, and they had few options for doing anything other than following the old Indian trail they were on. The mountain made up for its lack of height in bulk and ruggedness. Where we were, was on the side of the mountain, and it was almighty steep. Another mountain was looming to our left so close that you had the feeling you could reach out and touch it. But if you reached out too far you’d be likely to go tumbling into a mighty angry bunch of water that was crashing its way toward the river.

  I reckoned we were going through a pass, but we were several hundred feet above the actual pass, which was filled with rocks, water, and trouble. I was well pleased to be where I was. In July or August, I figure a fella might be able hike through that pass, but he couldn’t ride through it… Not even on Dusty.

  Around mid-day we heard a rifle shot somewhere in the distance. It’s hard to say exactly how far away it might have been because of the sheer walls and cedars. The cedars would tend to muffle the sound, whereas the canyons and mountains would bounce it around. We could only hope they were fetching their supper and not something more serious.

  About two hours later, we found the half skinned carcass of a young black bear. They had taken what they could use today and possibly tomorrow then left the rest for scavengers and us. Rubio and Arturo were on the ground and quickly butchering and wrapping pieces of meat. It would help. We’d all learned long ago, meat was meat, and if you had to chase a few coyotes away… it was still meat.

  Coming down off that hog back we crossed another narrow valley and another web of steams and flood plain where grass grew tall. Then we started up the next mountain. It was a big one, much bigger than the hogback and about twice as rugged. There were sheer faced bluffs a thousand or so feet high above us and drop offs that went a thousand feet down on our other side. It was beautiful and scary all at the same time.

  We came to level ground at last. It was sort of a saddle between two ridges that seemed to be a growth on the mountainside. The way I saw it, there had been a mass of softer and more fractured rock in the ridge that had broken down and crumbled away with time. Anyway, it was level ground, but to be more correct I’d have to say it was a level rock shelf. From a distance, it looked like what it was, a gap in a single ridge. But when you got there, you got the impression that it was a valley between two separate hills.

  Whatever it was didn’t matter, we were riding on a rock surface with a lot of loose rock scattered all around, some were the size of cow pies and others the size of locomotives.

  Rubio reigned up, got down, and started to lead his horse. We all followed suit. Rubio stood for a moment looking in every direction, and then he slowly raised his hands and extended them like he was throwing seeds into the air and made a sound like, “phoof”. They’d vanished.

  He then started casting about for sign, walking here and there, back and forth, and finally he walked ahead about fifty yards. He stopped and stared at a pile of rocks on his right, which covered a small knoll. It wasn’t something that I’d have given much thought to, but he was almighty interested in it. Walking up and over the knoll, he disappeared on the other side. When he reappeared, he motioned us to come on. When we reached where he was waiting, he motioned the spread of flat rock and said, “No live here. Live there and there and there.” He spread his arms to indicate other rock piles. “They move em.” He showed me were some of the rocks had been turned over when they’d been moved. Some were darker on the top, and they should have been bleached out to a light gray.

  They had been well placed to look like just another scattering of rocks, but someone had gotten careless. On the other side of the knoll we picked up the trail again which ran parallel to the Indian trail we’d been following. Whoever was hiding that trail was mighty good, but he wasn’t as good as Rubio. I would have sure hated to have been an Apache with that old devil on my trail.

  I cut a couple of inch thick saplings and propped one up at beginning of the gap so that it was leaning the right direction. Then I drove the other into ground at the top of the knoll and leaned it the way we had gone. I’d skinned it up and took off most of the lower branches so that it stood out like a red lantern on a whore house door.

  Within a half mile we picked up the Indian trail again. We’d lost a little time working out that sham with the rocks, but they’d lost more time creating the sham. So we had closed a little on them, but they were still several hours ahead and keeping pace.

  That evening, Filipe came to me as it was getting ready to turn into night. “Benito,” he said, “I have given much thought to this hombre who is covering their trail. I believe it could be Paco… Paco Ramirez. Some call him Jose Indio, or what you’d call Injun Joe… Paco was born on my father’s rancho. His family worked there. His mother was taken during a Ute raid, and a few months later escaped and returned. Paco was born a halfbreed.”

  “Through the years, his father would steal him away for four or five months at a time, and then return him in the fall. When Paco was about ten years old, his mother died and he ran away to be with his father’s people… He had become something of a renegade, and was in much trouble with the tribe and our people. We often heard stories of him running with banditos. I believe he has come back and joined the rustlers… it would be like him. There would be none other I can think of in the area who would be so good on the trail.”

  It made sense to me, although it wasn’t important who he was. The only thing that was important was what he was. If he was a true renegade then the hostages would be greater danger. I thought then of those he was with, and didn’t hold out much hope of the Williams and Rafferty bunch ever letting any of them live. Tom was the only one that seemed to have his head screwed on right, but he was a blatant rustler and who knew what else. It dawned on me that I really didn’t know Tom any better than I knew the others… maybe not as well.

  I spoke to Rubio and Arturo about it, and they both agreed that it could be Paco Ramirez guiding that bunch. Rubio had never met him, but he had heard rumors, and he had fought with the Ute’s. Arturo remembered him as a boy and knew the story. Rubio recalled the story of a band of bronco Indians who had holed up near Black Mountain and raided ranches toward Cimarron and Navajo sheep camps on the southern slope of the mountain.

  “Do you think that’s where they’re heading?” I asked.

  “Umgh,” he replied, “him Injun or old time mountain man… Black Mountain over there.” He pointed in the general direction we were going.

  I had to make a decision. Did I quit the trail and go full steam ahead for Black Mountain, or did I stick with the trail and try to close the gap? God took that choice away from me about midnight when the heavens opened up and rain came down in buckets. That would wash out any sign of horse tracks.

  We were a pretty gloomy bunch when the rain finally let up early that morning. We sat drinking the last of the coffee and discussing our options. I had no choice but to go on; I had a promise to fulfill. Even if I hadn’t made that promise, I’d still go on because I cared about Linda, Father Paul, and a young nun I’d never met.

  Rubio would go on because Russell had pistol whipped his grandson… Russell Rafferty must die for that sin. I think the old scalp hunter wanted at least one more scalp added to his collec
tion.

  Filipe sat for a long while looking into his coffee before he spoke. “Benito,” he started, “there is nothing I wish more than to watch Rank and Peter Williams die. I would want to pull the trigger myself. But I left my father close to death. I was not able to say via con Dios to my brother, but I want to be there for my father.”

  “He will be sad that Bernardo’s killers still live, but he will be pleased to know that they are being driven into the ground… I must return.”

  I assured him that I understood, and that I would probably do the same if I were him. As he and Arturo saddle up and prepared to head back, I asked him to let the marshal know of our plans to push on toward Black Mountain and to bring some coffee.

  I hated to see them go. Now there were only two of us and seven of them. If we could find them and keep them from killing or raping the hostages, we could wait for help to catch up. That was a mighty big if.

  As we put out the fire and loaded our gear, Rubio turned to me with a big smile and said, “Do not fear, Benblue, we get em.” And I believed we would, or we would both lie dead in these mountains.

  The old Indian trail was still there, but no tracks were visible. If they stayed on the trail we’d catch them soon enough, and if they left the trail we hoped to find them at black mountain. So we pushed on at a faster pace. Mornings had turned into evenings, and evenings had turned to mornings. I had no idea how long we’d been on the trail, but I knew we’d lost time due to the rain. We’d make that up now.

  Around mid-day we came across a grassy slope that looked like a good place to stop and rest our horses on some grass. It was good grass… too good to be on that mountainside. It looked almost like a pasture. Wild hillside grass like that should be much taller and full of other vegetation, but this looked like it had been cut and almost free of cedars, juniper, and most other brush. Then we heard the sheep.