Lookout Hill (9781101606735)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  “Gracias,” Lupo gasped, throwing the pack straps off his shoulders and lying collapsed beside the cumbersome load.

  “Who the hell is this?” someone standing above them demanded from Lupo.

  Sam looked up the grainy moonlight and made out a silhouette pointing a rifle in his direction. But before Sam could even reply, Lupo reached out and shoved the rifle barrel away.

  “It’s none of your concern, Foley,” Lupo growled. “He’s with me. That is all you need to know.”

  “You’re right, hombre,” the man said. “It’s none of my concern. I don’t give a damn who he is, so long as you brought me the money you promised.”

  Lupo produced a leather pouch from inside his shirt and shook it. The muffled sound of large gold coins caused the gunman to smile in the darkness.

  “Ah, that sounds sweeter than a maiden’s whisper,” the gunman said, reaching out for the pouch.

  But Lupo pulled it back.

  “Not so fast, my greedy amigo,” he said. “Where are the rifles and the ammunition you promised?”

  “Got them right here,” the man said. “Winchester repeaters, fully loaded—bandoliers of ammunition in case you accidently left something standing.” He gestured toward a bundle on the ground as he stepped over to it. Sam and Lupo followed close beside him.

  “Check it out,” Lupo said, picking up a rifle and handing it to the Ranger.

  Sam levered a round into the rifle chamber and hefted the gun, judging by the weight that it was fully loaded.

  “This one’s good,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, good as gold,” said the gunman. He looked at Lupo and threw back a canvas cover on the ground. “Look what a few more gold coins can buy for you.”

  Lupo and the Ranger looked down in the pale moonlight at a row of French hand grenades. Lupo picked one up and turned in his hand.

  “If I do not buy these, what will you do with them?” Lupo asked. Sam listened, knowing it to be a strategic question.

  The gunman shrugged and said, “Then I’ll have to slip them back into the arsenal shed before I leave.”

  “And if I purchase these,” Lupo said, “exactly how many does that leave for the Pettigos to use against us?”

  Even more strategic, Sam thought.

  The gunman gave a dark chuckle and said, “Exactly none.”

  “I see,” said Lupo. He reached back inside his shirt and brought out more gold coins.

  “You are damn wise for a Mexican,” the man said, taking a stack of gold coins from Lupo and dropping them into the pouch in his hand.

  Lupo let the slur pass him by.

  “Here’s a cigar for the both of yas, to light them with,” the man said.

  Lupo took the cigars, passed one to Sam and stuck the other in his shirt pocket. He began handing the grenades to Sam, who stuffed them into Lupo’s shoulder pack.

  “Tell me, how is it you were able to get these grenades out of the arsenal?” Lupo asked. “Does Pettigo trust you that much?”

  “Damned right he trusts me,” said the gunman. “He knows I would never betray him. I gave him my word,” he chuckled. “Leastwise, I never betrayed him until the right price came along.”

  “I understand,” Lupo said, standing, dusting his hands together.

  “Now, if we’re all finished, gentlemen,” the gunman said, “I’ll just bid you both adieu, shimmy down one of these ropes, grab one of your horses and cut out.” He tipped a battered derby hat.

  Sam gave Lupo a look.

  “Be careful you do not take the Appaloosa,” Lupo said.

  “No problem, you have my word,” he said, still with a dark chuckle in his voice. He approached the dangling ropes.

  Sam didn’t trust him; he started forward to stop him. He wasn’t going to take a chance on this man riding off on Black Pot. But before he could make a move, Lupo’s left arm reached around the gunman’s face from behind. The man let out a muffled cry as he suddenly rose onto his toes, his head trapped in the crook of Lupo’s forearm.

  Lupo jerked back hard on the gunman. The man’s hands clutched Lupo’s forearm, but only for a second. Then he turned loose, his arms flailing uselessly at his sides as Lupo sank his big boot knife deeper into his back, the tip of it slicing through his heart.

  Sam watched as Lupo rounded the blade, making sure the gunman was dead.

  Finally Lupo gave the man a shove off the big blade and let him topple to the ground. He stooped and wiped the blade back and forth, cleaning off the blood on the man’s shirt.

  “Do not think harshly of me, Ranger,” he said, taking back the leather pouch of gold. “After all, he was going to take your stallion.”

  “We don’t know that for a fact,” Sam said, even though the man had given every reason not to trust him.

  “Sí, I think we do know that,” said Lupo. He stepped over to the ropes with the big knife in hand and sliced each rope, making sure every trace of them fell away into the darkness. “He betrayed Pettigo, the man he gave his word to. Then he gave us his word. So what is his word good for?” Lupo shrugged. “He would have stolen your stallion just to show you he could.”

  Sam didn’t reply, although he had to admit, Lupo was most likely correct.

  “Anyway, he is dead,” said Lupo philosophically. “There is nothing to be said or done about it now.” He saw Sam look toward the place where he’d cut the two ropes. “We no longer needed them,” Lupo said as if to still any questions Sam might have about his cutting the ropes. “With the ropes gone, we know our animals are safe, and nobody knows we are here.”

  From the direction of the gully floor, the gunfire had grown louder, closer. Return gunfire from the front wall and the iron gates of the mining compound had also intensified. So had the Mexican west wind.

  Lupo stooped, picked up the shoulder pack and swung it up onto his shoulder.

  “Come with me, Ranger. Let us complete this mission,” he said quietly. “First to the livery barn for the strongest horses we can find. Then on to the gold.”

  Inside the Pettigo hacienda, Edgar Randolph Pettigo and his son, Dale, stood watching the darkness through the front window while Denver Jennings and three other mercenaries busily reloaded rifles from an open crate of ammunition sitting on the floor behind them. They saw flashes of gunfire outside coming from the wall and front gates, which sat on a lower terrace than their sprawling home.

  “If I find out that idiot Hughes has fallen in with the Cadys, I’ll kill him with my bare hands, so help me God!” said Dale, pounding a fist into the palm of his hand.

  Pettigo looked at his son as he levered a bullet into his rifle chamber.

  “Hell yes, he fell in with them!” he exclaimed. “If he wasn’t already with them to start. Instead of warning you they were coming, he let them slip right through.”

  “I’ll kill him—I’ll kill him—I’ll kill him!” Dale Pettigo ranted.

  “Save all that anger for the gunmen at the front gates,” said his father. “There’s plenty of killing to be done.”

  “I’ll do my share, Father,” said Dale. “You can rest assured. It’s just that I feel like such a fool, making that saddle tramp a sheriff, putting our interests into his hands.”

  “None of this comes as a surprise,” said E. R. Pettigo. “The Cadys have been out to rob us ever since they took over Lookout Hill. You said this would round the Cadys’ gunmen all together instead of us hunting them down every month. You were right in that regard.” He gestured toward the darkness, the streaks of gunfire coming from the long, wide gully.

  “Yes, in that regard I was right,” said Dale, “but I take little comfort in that fact alone—”

  Edgar Pettigo cut his son short, turning to Denver Jennings and the other mercenaries.

  “Men,” he said, “here is what you’ve been getting paid for all these weeks. From the sound of it, all the Lookout Hill boys are gathered here. Go to the wall and pass the word along—kill them all and be done with it.”

&nb
sp; “You heard E.R.,” Denver Jennings said to the men, throwing a bandolier of bullets over his shoulder. “Let’s go kill these sons a’ bitches.”

  He turned and fell in beside Edgar Pettigo and his son as the two walked across the tile floor, through the hacienda and out the front door.

  “How many men are guarding my artifacts, Denver?” the senior Pettigo asked, glancing toward the guarded barn as they walked along across the yard toward the fighting on the terraced level below.

  “Six, sir,” said Denver, “same as always.” He gave Dale Pettigo a passing glance, knowing he had no idea there was gold in the wide building so close to the house. “Should I double the guards?” he asked quietly.

  Not wanting to raise suspicion, Edgar Pettigo replied without hesitancy, “No, Denver, on the contrary. Pull away four of the guards and bring them to the front wall where they’re needed. If they don’t make it inside the compound, they can’t possibly threaten my Indian artifacts, now, can they?”

  “No, sir, you are absolutely right—they can’t. I’ll go bring four of the guards along,” said Denver Jennings, cutting away from the Pettigos and hurrying over to the building housing the gold.

  When Jennings pounded on the door, a guard opened it and looked beyond Jennings toward the front of the compound where the gunfire roared.

  “Have they broken through yet?” asked rough-faced Dodge Peterson.

  “What? No!” said Jennings, sounding agitated. “And they’re not going to, not as long as we’re here.” He stepped around Peterson and saw the other five men spread out around the wagon. The guards took a step closer, rifles in hand.

  “I don’t feel right standing here guarding a damn wagonload of beads and broken bowls, Denver,” said Gus Quinn. “All the fighting’s going on out front.”

  “This is your lucky day, Gus,” said Jennings. “E.R. just sent me to get four of yas and get to the front wall.” He looked at the other men. “Tuell and Cravens, you both stay here, keep guarding. The rest of yas follow me.” He turned and walked out of the building at a brisk pace. The men looked at one another, then fell in and hurried along behind him.

  Gus Quinn looked back to the remaining guards with a smug grin and called back, “Don’t worry, fellows. We’ll keep these bad ol’ Lookout Hill boys from getting in here, scaring the two of you.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Cravens said under his breath as the door closed behind the hurrying men. “I could’ve stayed in Missouri and been a guard if I felt like it.”

  “I hear you. I didn’t turn mercenary just to hide from a fight,” said Tuell.

  The two looked at each other, and then Tuell let out a breath and said, “What’s these Indian artifacts look like anyways?”

  “I don’t know,” said Cravens. “Pettigo keeps six men here so they’ll all keep one another out, same as they guard against outside thieves. That’s why nobody’s ever seen this junk.”

  Tuell gave a sneaky grin.

  “Until now,” he said. “Are you with me?”

  Cravens looked all around, as if making sure they weren’t being watched.

  “Hell yes,” he said. “Why not? It beats standing here squeezing a rifle all night.” He spit and said, “Anybody ever finds out, we’ll know for sure who told.”

  “Yeah, well, you go watch out front, in case anybody comes along,” said Tuell, reaching for a burning lantern hanging on the wall. “I’ll pull us out a crate and open it.”

  Chapter 22

  As Cravens stood staring out through the narrowly cracked front door, Tuell dropped the freight wagon’s tailgate and set the glowing lantern on it. He grabbed a crate and dragged it back and dropped it onto the gate. With a pry bar he’d picked up from a tool table, he loosened the plank top and slid it aside. He picked up the lantern, held it in closer and stared down blankly into the crate.

  “Talk to me, Tuell,” Cravens called out in a lowered voice. “What have we got in there?” He half turned and looked back from his spot at the door.

  “Just what we expected,” said Tuell, sounding disappointed, “a bunch of beads, some arrowheads, a couple of tomahawks….” He slid the lid back on the crate and shook his head. “This was nothing but a waste of time.”

  “Try another one,” Cravens called back to him. “Maybe you’ll find a dried squaw or something.”

  “A dried squaw…?” Tuell gave him a glance around the back corner of the wagon.

  “Yeah,” said Cravens, “the Spaniards used to tan Injuns just like tanning a hawk or a bear.”

  “Where’d you hear something like that?” Tuell asked.

  “I didn’t have to hear it anywhere,” Cravens whispered in a sharp tone. “It’s a fact.”

  “A fact…” Tuell shook his head with disgust, reached in and dragged another crate back to the tailgate. This one had been lying beneath the first one on the wagon bed. “Keep an eye out there,” he added, hearing all the shooting coming from the front wall overlooking the gully.

  With the pry bar, Tuell loosened the nails on the second crate and slid it to the side. He held the lantern in closer, looked inside.

  “It’s the same as the other one,” he called out without looking around toward Cravens. He grinned wryly. “No sign of any dried squaw for you.”

  Cravens didn’t answer. Tuell reached out to pull the lid back in place, but he stopped when he saw the lantern glow set something aglitter down in the packing straw beneath the artifacts.

  “Whoa, wait a minute, now,” he said more to himself than to Cravens. “What have we here?” He hurriedly pushed the packing straw aside with his fingertips and picked up a one-by-two-inch gold ingot from a whole deep stack.

  “Holy Toledo! Get back here and look at this, Cravens!” He turned the ingot in his hand, holding it close to the lantern light. “Dried squaw, my ass! This crate’s full of gold.”

  Staring down wide-eyed at the ingot, he heard footsteps hurrying toward him. As he turned around grinning, he held the ingot in one hand and the lantern in his other. “This whole damn wagon might be full of go—!”

  His words stopped short with a jolt as Lupo’s knife sank into his heart.

  “Fácil, fácil, hombre,” Lupo whispered, taking the lantern by its handle just as Tuell turned it loose and gasped for a breath that would never come to him. Using the knife as a guide, Lupo directed the dying man backward and seated him on the wagon tailgate for a moment. He looked around at the front door, where he had left Craven’s body lying slumped against the wall. Sliding his knife from Tuell’s chest, he wiped the blade on the dead man’s shoulder. He walked to the rear of the building, unlocked the doors and threw them open.

  Without a word, Sam led two teams of wagon horses inside and straight to the front of the wagon. Lupo walked back to the wagon’s tailgate and gave Tuell’s body a shove. As Tuell hit the dirt floor, Lupo picked up the ingot and pitched it back into the crate. He gave the crate a quick glance. Seeing the stacks of ingots beneath the straw, he slid the lid on and hammered it down with the handle end of his big knife.

  As Lupo restacked the two crates and closed the tailgate, Sam busily hitched the horses to the wagon.

  “Ready when you are,” Sam called out in a hushed tone.

  Lupo took a deep breath in preparation. He walked alongside the wagon and looked up at the Ranger.

  Sam sat in the driver’s seat ready to go, the thick sets of reins in hand, both his rifles and Lupo’s leaning in the wagon beside him.

  “Throw the doors open and climb on,” Sam said down to him.

  “In a moment, Ranger,” Lupo said with calm deliberation. “First, please hand me my rifle.” He reached a hand up.

  Sam started to reach for the rifle to hand it down to him, but he caught himself.

  “Why?” he asked pointedly.

  Lupo lowered his hand and said, “Because I have something that I must say.”

  “And you’ll need your rifle to say it?” Sam deftly moved all the reins to his left hand; his righ
t hand drifted down to the Colt on his hip.

  “I hope I will not need it,” said Lupo.

  “I hope you won’t either.” Sam stared at him

  “I’m afraid I have lied to you, Ranger,” said Lupo. Then he corrected himself quickly. “Well, not exactly lied. But not exactly been honest either.”

  “Out with it, Easy John,” Sam said. “We don’t have all night, if you want to get down the hidden back trail.”

  From the front wall the gun battle raged.

  “There is no hidden back trail, Ranger,” Lupo said, spilling it all at once as if spitting something foul from his mouth. “That is what I lied about.”

  “All right….” Sam nodded slightly. He raised his hand from his Colt and took the reins in both hands. “I was wondering when you were going to tell me.”

  “You—you knew there’s no hidden trail down the back of the hillside?” said Lupo.

  “I had a pretty good hunch there wasn’t,” Sam said, “leastwise not one built by the Spaniards that you could still run a wagon on. If there was, the Pettigos would most certainly know about it.”

  Lupo considered it in earnest.

  “You knew, yet you climbed up here with me anyway?” Lupo said, surprised. “Even after I promised no more tricks or lies?”

  “I figured if I didn’t come with you, you’d try riding the wagon down alone, as determined as you are.” Sam looked him up and down and added, “I couldn’t see letting you get yourself killed.”

  “But it is for my country, Ranger,” Lupo said. “You did not have to get involved.”

  “I am involved,” said Sam.

  “But the Matamoros Agreement says—”

  Sam cut him off.

  “I know what it says, but that’s on paper, for the benefit of those in armchairs and oaken desks,” Sam said. “The fact is, anything that happens to your country or mine, either one, affects us both. Whether we like each other or not, we’re neighbors—our people better stand together if we all plan to stick here the next few hundred years.”