Blood of Apache Mesa

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Ah! The pursuit!” Mauveaux exclaimed. “It is like the appetizer before the feast—tantalizing, promising, and an exciting hint of the tastes to follow.” He turned to his men and signaled. “Ya, vamanos a la montana.”

  Hester, firmly tied in place, had no choice but to allow herself to be led away by Mauveaux the bandit chief.

  Hubert Mauveaux had been born into a wealthy family in Orleans, France. His father was an art dealer who spent a great deal of time away from home on buying trips. The mother, a beautiful but slightly dull-witted woman, was years younger than her drudge of a husband. Rather than pine away in boredom in her dull marriage, the young wife amused herself with countless love affairs, contenting herself with turning over the actual raising of her son to a succession of nannies.

  As a toddler, Mauveaux had been prone to violent temper tantrums that would turn his face purple from the screaming and exertion of the fits. As a young child, a streak became apparent in his makeup of treating his pets cruelly that shocked and dismayed the household staff. Later, as he grew older, he vented these sadistic displays toward smaller children.

  However, when he reached his teens, a tender side to Mauveaux’ emotional make-up became evident. He evolved into an incurable romantic, with mad infatuations directed toward any female, receptive or not, who caught his fancy. The drawback to these amorous tendencies was that he could not take no for an answer. This led to more complications when his brutality, fed by the frustration of refusal, overrode his affections for the female concerned.

  His amorous attentions were directed toward women as diverse as serving wenches in cheap bistros to young women of his own class. He courted them with flowers, poems, songs, and endless pleas for their love and devotion. Most of these episodes were harmless affairs, and the women were no more than annoyed by the gawky youngster. But when he reached his late teens, he found a special attraction to married women. When irate husbands stepped into the picture, things turned serious and ugly. At one time there were even serious possibilities of duels.

  His father got Mauveaux out of those numerous scrapes. That included the several challenges of honor that had to be dealt with. With angry husbands of lesser social standing, a few thousand francs generally smoothed things over.

  Finally, the older man had tried to employ his son in his art business, but Mauveaux was hopeless. Unappreciative and with no concept of value or esthetics, he bungled several big deals. That left but one solution—banish the boy to the army.

  A young man from their social class could not be expected to serve as a common soldier, but it was impossible to get Mauveaux a commission in a regular regiment. Although many officers were not much more than dandies, they still had to meet certain educational qualifications. After searching around and attempting to use the influence of friends in government, Mauveaux Senior obtained a lieutenancy for Mauveaux Junior in a regiment of chasseurs d’Afrique. This outfit, stationed in Algeria, was a colonial unit that would never see duty in metropolitan France.

  Mauveaux at first resented this posting out into what he considered a wilderness. But once he’d settled into the officers’ mess and learned to find his way around, the young sous lieutenant was completely at home. He reveled in the North African bordellos filled with prostitutes of every nationality who would cater to any sexual desire. Between visits to the exotic whores, Mauveaux had illicit affairs with the wives of uncaring men. All the while he neglected his duties in an outrageous fashion. But nobody cared, for all an officer was expected to do was to be brave in battle.

  But Mauveaux’s Algerian adventures came to an end in 1861 when his regiment was posted to Mexico to participate in Napoleon Ill’s attempt to create a Latin League. Serving under poor deluded Emperor Maximilian and the insane Empress Carlotta, Mauveaux simply took up where he left off when he boarded the troopship in Oran.

  But he discovered a new vice: gambling.

  Poker became his passion, and he played the game as he had courted women—recklessly, badly, and with rotten luck. His losses mounted to such an extent that not even the allowance from his father was enough to pull him out of debt. His final fall occurred in one period of three tumultuous days when he was caught cheating at cards and stealing from his regimental officers’ mess fund. Court-martialed, cashiered, and disowned by his family, Mauveaux was stuck in Mexico. He drifted into petty crime at first. When the need for money became greater, he moved to serious crime. By the time the French had been kicked out of the country, he was into banditry, using his military training to plan and lead organized raids against isolated ranches and villages. Because of his successes, he eventually built up a superb criminal organization that consisted of Americans, Mexicans, mestizos, Indians, and other half-civilized types spawned by the cruel life of the frontier. Finally in a world where his word was law, Hubert Mauveaux took whatever he wanted.

  What he wanted at the particular time was Hester Boothe.

  Hester, now watched more carefully, had no choice but to cooperate as she was led up a mountainous trail. It was a narrow track with room for no more than two horses abreast. Regularly spaced guard posts were in evidence as they ascended higher into the mountains.

  Mauveaux, ahead of her, looked back now and again. He winked at times. On other occasions he blew her kisses. Hester, filled with hatred and fear, did nothing to hide her distress or the revulsion she felt. These obvious signs of rejection only served to inflame the Frenchman’s desires.

  After an hour of slow, sure climbing, the outlaw column emerged over a crest and rode down into a wide basin. This large depression was a natural fort with immense boulders along the rim that an ancient volcano had tossed indiscriminately into position.

  This was Montana Bandido—Bandit Mountain— the stronghold of the Mauveaux gang. Hester sat straight and dignified as she was led across the wide expanse. She could see the hovels of the lower-ranking members of the gang. Some of these were no more than blankets thrown over a frame of limbs and lumber. Others were Apache-style wickiups, while some of the people had gone to the trouble of putting up sturdy adobe structures. But the main edifice, a two-storied building complete with a tiled roof, rose up in the center of the sprawling village.

  Mauveaux pointed to it. “The people call it El Castillo—the Castle. It is my home, and rightfully so, for l am the king of this mountain.”

  Hester said nothing. She noticed that the women of the camp were gathering around, following her closely. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, but it was obvious they were giving her a close scrutiny, and their voices did not sound very friendly. One in particular stared up at her with undisguised hatred. The savage look in the Latin woman’s face was more frightening to the confused American girl than Mauveaux’s romantic attentions.

  The woman shouted to the bandit chief. “Quien es ella?”

  Mauveaux smirked. “No te preocupas .” He looked back at Hester and laughed. “Her name is Lola. She is terribly jealous of you.”

  “Please tell her she has no reason to be,” Hester said.

  Mauveaux laughed louder. “Yes, she does!”

  “Of course she doesn’t,” Hester insisted.

  “Already your beauty has inflamed the jealous tempers of the women,” Mauveaux said in a boastful tone. “The ones who love me madly are already torn by the realization that my heart now belongs to you.”

  Hester almost sneered. “My husband is going to put a bullet through that heart of yours.”

  “To die for you, my bellisima, would be a most wonderful death,” Mauveaux said.

  When they arrived at the Castle, Mauveaux’s staff was waiting. Surprisingly, they were three older women. The “king” obviously did not want romance to interfere with the efficient running of his household. He barked a few words of Spanish at them. Two of them came forward to untie Hester. The third, who seemed to be directing the other two, merely stood back and waited. Hester was pulled from the horse, then tugged toward the door. Before she entered the
building, she took another desperate look around.

  She now fully realized that her chances of being rescued were nil.

  Nine

  Wildon urged his horse up the sharp incline from what appeared to be a dry creek bed. The animal struggled upward, then finally reached the top where Sergeant Garrity waited. The N.C.O. pointed to the south. “That’s where we’re headed,” he said. “Mexico.”

  Wildon only treated the distant view to a quick glimpse. He turned his attention back to the ground. “There is still a trail evident enough to be followed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garrity said.

  “So why are we tarrying, Sergeant?” the lieutenant demanded to know.

  “We don’t want to stumble into the bandits and get ourselves a big nasty surprise,” Garrity explained patiently. “It will be better if we find out where they are, then make our moves, sir. That way we can decide what’s going to happen—not them desperados.”

  “I’ll trust to your caution, Sergeant,” Wildon said.

  “Yes, sir.” Garrity pulled out a cigar and bit off the end. “There’s one more thing, sir.”

  “What’s that, Sergeant?”

  “Military courtesy is going to have to cease while we’re scouting around in any towns down here. Or when we’re around somebody,” Garrity said. “As far as anyone is to know, we’re just a couple of border drifters. If any of the bandits’ agents or spies figure out we’re a couple of army men from the wagon train, we’ll be dead meat.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that a gang of cutthroats actually employs a network of organized informers, Sergeant?” Wildon asked.

  “That’s right, Lieutenant,” Garrity explained. “These bandido gangs are small armies. In fact, a lot of ’em are led by former army officers who’ve lost out in revolutions and other power plays among the Mexican bigwigs.”

  “I see,” Wildon said. “Then you’re right, Sergeant. We had best dispense with army protocol when the situation calls for it.” He smiled sheepishly. “I don’t believe this ever came up in any of my West Point classes.”

  Garrity nodded. “Maybe you should write a lecture covering the subject, sir.”

  “I might at that, Sergeant. Shall we practice? I believe your first name is James, is it not, Ser—er, James?”

  “Jim will do fine. Or you can call me Garrity.”

  “Very well, Jim. Please call me Wildon.”

  “Right, Wildon,” Garrity said. “Let’s go.”

  The two, as suggested by Garrity, rode with the sergeant carefully noting the trail left by the bandidos. Wildon gave his attention to keeping an eye on the surrounding terrain to avoid an ambush. It was the most practical arrangement since the lieutenant’s education at the military academy also failed to include classes in tracking fugitives across rocky deserts.

  Both men were out of uniform. Wildon was dressed in his buckskin hunting clothing complete with his privately owned Remington pistol and Winchester carbine. Garrity had borrowed the lieutenant’s other long gun—a Henry repeater—but carried his army-issue Colt revolver. The pair also wore civilian belts and holsters. Their appearance was no different than a thousand other men roaming the untamed border country in the conduct of various enterprises—legal and otherwise.

  Their careful tracking activities continued through the morning and into the early afternoon without stopping. At times when it was easy to determine the direction the bandits had traveled through following a logical trail, Garrity managed to save time by cutting across the circuitous route the desperados had chosen. Finally, in the early evening, Garrity halted. “Look at this.”

  Wildon rode over to him. “What is it?”

  “One of the horses suddenly veered off,” Garrity said, pointing to the ground. “See how several others either went with it or after it?”

  “Yes,” Wildon said. “Perhaps an escape attempt?”

  “Is Mrs. Boothe a good rider?” Garrity asked. “She’s an expert,” Wildon said proudly. “She can ride as good or better than any man.”

  Garrity followed the tracks until he reached a point where they ended. “The people chasing her must have caught up with the lady right here. There’s all sorts of muddling around—and somebody dismounted.” He pointed outward. “They rode back toward the main group and must have joined up with them up there a few hundred yards away.”

  Wildon felt a stab of emotional pain as he realized that a few hours earlier, his beloved Hester had been physically manhandled by a gang of brutes. “Let’s get on with it.”

  The army men traced the hoofmarks back to the main trail. Then the patient tracking began again. Another hour went by before they stopped. This time it was Wildon who called out for a halt. “There’s something over there on the horizon to the east.”

  Garrity expertly slipped out of his stirrups and pulled himself up to stand in the saddle. “Yeah. It’s a town. I think we’d better check it out.”

  “Why?” Wildon asked. “The bandits’ trail leads on off to the south.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garrity agreed, dropping back to a sitting position. “But the fact that they passed this close to that settlement shows they weren’t worried about the people there. It may be a hangout of theirs.”

  “Right!” Wildon agreed. “Some of those blackguards might even be there now.”

  “Could be,” Garrity allowed. “Let’s pay the place a visit.”

  “Right, Sergeant.”

  “We’d best forget the ‘sergeant’ and ‘sir,’ Wildon.”

  “Right you are, Jim.”

  It took them a half-hour to reach the place. As they rode, the view of the town became clearer. From a smudge it gradually assumed shape until the church steeple was visible. Then a few outlying adobe huts were easily discernible. They spotted a small commercial area along one street.

  “There’ll be a cantina and a general store along with a couple of other small places,” Garrity explained. “Most of these villages are the same.”

  “You’ve been down in Mexico before?” Wildon asked.

  “Right.” Garrity winked at him. “There’s been more than once when we were chasing Comanches and conveniently forgot how far south we were.”

  “I believe that would be termed ‘field expediency’ at West Point,” Wildon said. “Illegal but effective, hey?”

  “I hate to admit it, but it wasn’t always effective,” Garrity said. “But it made the bastards respect and fear us a hell of a lot more.”

  When they rode into the main street, Wildon saw that Garrity had been correct. A cantina, a general store of sorts, and a couple of small businesses lined the street. The sergeant pointed to the saloon. “That’s where we want to go.”

  They reined up and dismounted. After tying their horses at the hitching rail, Wildon and Garrity walked inside through the open entrance. They brought their long guns in with them. Wildon’s eyes darted around restlessly to see if he could spot anyone among the customers resembling any of the raiders he’d traded shots with.

  Mismatched tables were arranged around the room. A long bar took up one side of the place, and a door led out toward the rear. Several rough types sat around drinking, and a card game was in progress over in one corner. Garrity chose a table off to one side. They sat down and the sergeant gestured to the barkeep. “Dos cervezas.” He turned to Wildon. “I just ordered us a couple of beers.”

  “Well, I am surprised,” Wildon said. “I didn’t know you could speak Spanish.”

  “I know enough to enjoy myself,” Garrity said. Wildon pulled some coins out of his pocket and laid them on the table. “Will he take American money?”

  “They’ll take any kind this close to the border,” Garrity said.

  The Mexican bartender set two goblets of beer in front of them and pulled out the amount of coins he needed from those on the table. He affected a slight smile. “Gracias, caballeros.”

  Wildon took a sip of the warm beer. “The men in this room appear to be no more than cutthroats.�
�

  “That’s probably what they are,” Garrity agreed. “This part of the country attracts the worst from both the United States and Mexico.”

  “I should say so. Obviously the fittest and strongest are the survivors here,” Wildon said. He carefully studied each man’s face. His scrutiny was interrupted by a small hand on his shoulder. He turned around and saw that a small Mexican woman was standing beside him. She smiled and Wildon took off his hat. “How do you do?”

  “You looking for a good time, gringo?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She playfully nudged him. “Hey, I like you. We go for a good time, eh? One peso mexicano or one dollar americano.”

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” Wildon said. He looked at Garrity. “What is it she wants?”

  “She’s a whore,” Garrity bluntly replied.

  Wildon swallowed hard and looked at the visitor to the table as if she were a cross between a reptile and a beautiful flower. “A soiled dove?”

  “Yeah. A trollop—a painted lady—whatever you want to call her.”

  Wildon smiled weakly and looked up at the woman. “Maybe a bit later. I’m looking for somebody.”

  The girl shrugged and walked over to Garrity. “Y tu? What about you, eh?”

  Garrity, a professional soldier, was sorely tempted, but he fought down his natural desires. “We’ll talk to you later. We are waiting for a friend.”

  “Esta bien,” she said. “I see you later.”

  She wandered off to the other tables. Wildon turned his attention back to a close study of the cantina’s other customers. “Have you seen anyone that appears to have been among the raiders?” he asked.

  Garrity shook his head. “Nope. But if I was you, I wouldn’t stare quite so hard.”

  “I don’t feel the need for a display of proper etiquette,” Wildon whispered sharply. “My wife has been kidnapped. I don’t care a hang if I offend one of these ruffians.” He continued his searching gaze until a man from a table across the room stood up and walked over to them.