He jumped up and raced to the open study window. Swung himself over the sill and landed running on the hardwood floor within. The body of Arlo Gillette was still sprawled in the open doorway, the S&W .44 clenched in his stiffening fingers; M’Candliss bent and pried the weapon free. Then he stepped over the dead man, went down a hallway toward the back of the house, and finally emerged in the kitchen.
He stopped there when he saw the cookstove in one corner. A fire had been built inside, and the metal glowed a dull rust-red. Quickly, M’Candliss bent and pulled open the door at the stove’s bottom, revealing the hot coals inside. He picked up a small scoop shovel which lay nearby and dipped out several of the coals; then he straightened again and turned toward the archway. Beyond it lay a parlor which faced into an open-air central patio.
Floor-length velvet drapes covered one wall of the parlor, and M’Candliss carried the shovelful of coals there, dropped the red-hot embers on the material. Flames shot up almost immediately, consuming the drapes and sending tongues upward toward the beamed ceiling. It would not take long, he knew, before the whole room was ablaze.
He darted through another archway into the center patio. On his left was one of the wooden support pillars for the low portico which covered the, section just beyond the’ arch. Moving there, he climbed the pillar and swung himself up onto the portico by way of its upturned lip. He eased along the gradual slant until he stood at the wall of the house’s second story. By stretching full-length he could grasp enough of the tile roof to pull himself up.
He climbed the tiles carefully, boot soles seeking out and gripping weather-eroded chinks. When he gained the roof’s peak he crouched there, looking into the darkened yard. Some of Gillette’s men were shouting, running toward the house. He couldn’t see into the heavy shadows behind the paloverde where he’d left Clement Holmes; Holmes was either still there or he had made it to cover somewhere beyond the fence, because there was no sign of him anywhere else.
The fire was spreading rapidly through the interior of the house; flickering light that cast grotesque shadows on the ground below told M’Candliss that. He moved sideways along the roof’s peak, toward the rear. When he got there he looked down on a low porch roof similar to the portico in the central patio. He lowered himself onto the porch roof, crawled along it to where he could see into the yard directly below.
One of the hands was there, pistol drawn, staring at the rear door as if waiting for someone to come bursting out. M’Candliss crept forward until the toes of his boots touched the edge, crouching with his left arm out for balance. Then he jumped out and down.
He landed just to the man’s right. The hand gave a startled gasp, whirling, but he had no time to cry out a warning or to bring his pistol to bear. M’Candliss clubbed him alongside the head with the barrel of Gillette’s .44. The man let out a low, muffled sigh and dropped to the ground at M’Candliss’ feet.
M’Candliss took a quick look around him. There was no one else nearby, although he could hear the sounds of men shouting from the front section of the house. He could also hear the rumbling crackle of the fire as it raced from surface to surface inside the adobe walls.
He ran straight ahead, toward the looming shape of the stable. He would have preferred to go the other way, around to where the paloverde was, to see if Holmes was still there and to help him get away if he was. But that would have been suicidal; he’d have had to cross too much open ground, and Gillette’s men were swarming around the house. All he could do was to get himself clear of the area and hope that Holmes had done the same.
Reaching the stable, M’Candliss moved around behind it and circled the split-rail fence until he was almost parallel with the burning ranch house. None of the hands were here; they were all at the far side of the yard. He slipped between the rails into the corral. A half-dozen horses moved on the hard-packed adobe, turned skittish by the commotion and the fire. He managed to calm one of the animals, to slip a halter over its head that he found hanging carelessly from one of the fence posts. Then he led it to the corral gate and out to the side of the stable.
The stable’s bulk hid both him and the horse as he took it around the rear of the bunkhouse. Half a minute later, he found a side gate in the fence enclosing the ranch yard. He opened it, swung onto the horse’s bare back, and rode through into the darkness beyond.
It took him ten minutes to circle through the mesquite, along the near ridge of the valley, to the top of the brushy slope where he’d left his clay bank. When he found the horse he didn’t see any sign of Holmes, not there nor on the slope below, and he thought he was going to have to risk going down to the ranch yard again. But then, as he dismounted, a figure appeared from behind one of the larger bushes and called out to him softly.
“Captain! It’s Clement Holmes.”
There was relief in the voice, and relief in M’Candliss too as he moved over to join the diplomat. “You all right, sir?” he asked.
“Yes. Scared to death, but not harmed. I slipped away not long after you disappeared inside the house.”
“You should have ridden out as soon as you got up here,” M’Candliss said.
“I know. And I was about to when I heard you coming just now. But I was worried about you, Captain. I thought there might be something I could do to help you. I owe you my life, after all.”
“We’re both safe, that’s the main thing,” M’Candliss said. “And we’ve got a lot of other lives to worry about.”
Below, in the ranch yard, Gillette’s house was a blazing pyre. In the reddish glow of the flames, M’Candliss could see some of the men milling about in a confused way, while others had formed a bucket brigade at one of the wells. It wouldn’t be long before they realized both M’Candliss and Holmes had escaped, and when they reorganized they would likely send out a search party. Both he and the governor’s man would have to be well on their way by then if they hoped to reach Adobe Junction without trading any more lead.
He took Holmes’ arm, steered him to the clay bank. When the diplomat had mounted, M’Candliss swung onto the horse he had liberated from the corral and led the way back toward a road he had seen earlier. The road pointed southwest, the direction of Adobe Junction, and he thought that it would lead straight to the town across the desert’s rim.
When they reached the trail they rode hard and in silence for the better part of an hour. Clement Holmes was a good horseman; despite his weakened condition, there was no problem along those lines. Nor was there any problem with pursuit. After a time M’Candliss could see a dust cloud in the far distance behind them, but there was little chance that Gillette’s men could overtake them or that they would keep up the chase as far as Adobe Junction. M’Candliss knew men like that, and with their boss dead, the odds were they would disband and light a shuck for other parts before morning.
The first time M’Candliss slowed the pace, to give their horses a breather, he told Holmes everything that had happened in the past few days. The governor’s man expressed shock at the news about Gueterma’s duplicity, and Outright horror at the plan to blow up the delegates’ train at Saddleback Gorge.
“My God, Captain,” Holmes said, “we can’t let that happen. We can’t! It would mean certain war between our country and Mexico.”
“It won’t happen,” M’Candliss told him. “Isabella Ortiz will get to Adobe Junction before we do, and she’ll spread the word to my men. Flynn and Meckleburg will send a wire to Lordsburg in plenty of time to stop the train when it reaches that point.”
“I hope you’re right, Captain,” Holmes said grimly.
“Don’t worry, sir. I am.”
But he wasn’t. For one of the few times in his career, M’Candliss, as he would discover before the end of another day, was dead wrong.
Chapter Eleven
It was late afternoon, coming on five o’clock by M’Candliss’ stem-winder, when they reached Adobe Junction.
The day had been very hot, with the sun a huge fiery disc that sp
read shimmers of heat and baked their skin as they rode. They had had no apparent pursuit since daybreak, and encountered no one on the road except a bearded man driving a traveling fix-it wagon. Several times they had stopped to rest, once at a waterhole near the road to ease the painful dryness in their throats and to freshen their mounts. Holmes grew weaker as the day progressed, but he made no complaint. He was determined to reach the town under his own power; there would be time enough then, he told M’Candliss, to doctor his grippe and to worry about the threat of pneumonia.
The flagging strength of both Holmes and the horses forced them to slow down considerably, and when the wooden buildings of Adobe Junction finally came into view through the heat haze, they were moving at little more than a walk. Holmes managed a weak smile and sat up straighter in the clay bank’s saddle.
“We made it, Captain,” he said.
“Didn’t you reckon we would?”
“There were times when I had my doubts. About myself, that is—never about you. You’re a damned strong man, M’Candliss. Damned strong.”
“So are you, sir. And that’s a fact.”
They rode across the last mile of mesquite and cactus and ironwood in silence. When they passed through the small Mexican quarter and turned onto the dusty main street, M’Candliss saw a crowd of townspeople in front of the adobe building that housed Sheriff Tucker’s office and the jail. He leaned forward over his horse’s neck and peered at the crowd. He could make out Sheriff Tucker’s hound like face, but he saw no sign of Isabella Ortiz. Nor did he see Flynn or Meckleburg or any of the rest of his company of Rangers.
A man at the edge of the gathering saw them coming and let out a shout. The crowd surged around them, buzzing excitedly as they drew rein and M’Candliss dismounted. He helped Holmes out of his saddle, then turned to face the sheriff.
“Hell, M’Candliss,” Tucker said, “you’re a sight for sore eyes. You too, Mr. Holmes.”
“That goes double for us,” M’Candliss told him. “Did Isabella Ortiz ride in today?”
“Sure did. More’n two hours ago. She’s resting over to the hotel.”
M’Candliss was relieved that she was safe. He nodded. “Then you know about Gueterma and what he’s planning to do at Saddleback Gorge.”
Anger tightened Tucker’s mouth. And something else that might have been grim frustration. “Yeah,” he said, “she told us. But—”
“Did you send a wire to Lordsburg to stop the delegates’ train?”
“No, goddamn it. We couldn’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
The telegraph operator, Cable, who had been standing nearby, stepped forward. “Lines are down,” he said. “Been down since early morning. Not a thing we can do about it, feller.”
M’Candliss cursed. He knew what had happened—the banditos who had chased Isabella and him from the mountain fortress had realized that he would try to warn the delegates’ train by wire if he reached Adobe Junction. When they hadn’t been able to catch him, they had cut the telegraph lines.
We been tryin’ to decide what to do,” Tucker said. “Nearest town with a telegraph office is San Ameron, but it’s half a day’s ride. No way to get there and send a wire in time, even if their lines are still up.”
Clement Holmes ran a hand across his gritty face. He looked exhausted, but his eyes blazed under their sunburned lids. “How far is Saddleback Gorge from here?” he asked the sheriff.
“Too far to get there before the train does.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“He’s right, sir,” M’Candliss said. He had done some fast computing, remembering Governor Shannon’s wire of two nights ago. It had said that the delegates’ train would arrive in Prescott at noon tomorrow. Figuring some three hours between the Territorial capital and Saddleback Gorge, that meant the train would pass over the trestle at roughly nine a.m. It was now almost six—and it would take a full day, even pushing their horses to maximum speed all the way, to reach Saddleback Gorge. “There’s just no way it can be done.”
“You and your men have got to try, Captain,” Holmes said, “no matter how futile it seems. We can’t give up—not with so many lives at stake.”
“We’re not going to give up,” M’Candliss said tightly. He looked at Sheriff Tucker. “Where are all my Rangers, Sheriff? There was supposed to be a company sent here from the nearest garrison—”
“So there was,” Tucker told him. “But they all took out this mornin’ to scout around for you, long before that Mexican gal showed up.”
“Flynn and Meckleburg too?”
“Flynn went with ‘em. Lieutenant Gordon left Meckleburg behind to keep an eye on things. He’s over at the hotel, lookin’ after Miz Ortiz.”
“Do you know where the Rangers went?”
“They didn’t tell me,” Tucker said. “But I reckon up into the Galiuros, lookin’ for some sign.”
M’Candliss cursed again. It was unlikely that Gordon and the rest of the Rangers would find the bandito fortress. And there was no telling when they would return—possibly not until sometime tomorrow, when it would be much too late.
Fifteen hours—that was all the time they had. But what could they do, even if his men were here? There was just no chance to reaching Saddleback Gorge by horseback in that amount of time...
An idea struck him. He asked Tucker, “Is there a locomotive down in the rail yard? A switch engine, if nothing else?”
Tucker scowled. “Reckon there is, sure. What you got in mind?”
“We can’t stop the delegates’ train in Lordsburg,” M’Candliss said, “but we might be able to get to Saddleback Gorge and spring Gueterma’s trap before the delegates get there. A locomotive and a couple of cars just might make it from here to the gorge before nine tomorrow morning.
There were excited murmurs from the crowd, and the sheriff nodded emphatically. “By gum, it might work at that!”
“We can’t wait around,” M’Candliss said. “We’ll have to get under way as soon as possible—within the half hour.”
“We can do that, alright,” Tucker promised. “Maybe we won’t have your Rangers, but we’ll have plenty of men and guns to side our run.” He turned toward the assembled townspeople. “Isn’t that right, men?”
The reaction of the able-bodied citizens and cowboys in the crowd was immediate and vociferous. They had wanted a chance to strike back at the murdering banditos who had spread so much terror across their land, and now that chance had come. They swarmed around Tucker and M’Candliss, volunteering their services as many of them had before, after the bandito raid at El Sacacorchos.
Taking charge, the sheriff told them they were all deputized. “Grab your rifles and some extra ammunition,” he ordered them, “and meet us at the rail yard, quick as you can. Now move out. Get cracking!”
The men hurriedly scattered in all directions.
Clement Holmes said to Tucker, “I’m going along too, Sheriff. You’ll have to supply me with a rifle—”
“You’re not going anywhere, sir,” M’Candliss told him, “except straight to bed.”
“Damn it, Captain, I want to be in at the finish of this business—”
“I know you do. But you’re in no condition to make a trip like we’re planning. You need rest and doctoring, or you’ll wind up sure with pneumonia.”
Holmes started to argue further, but a spasm of coughing overcame him. By the time he had gotten it under control, M’Candliss had taken hold of his arm and was steering him up the street toward La Hacienda. The governor’s man glanced at M’Candliss, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand, but he made no protest. He seemed to have accepted the fact, however reluctantly, that he was too weak for any more activity.
They were halfway to the hotel when its front door burst open and Meckleburg came charging out onto the boardwalk. As soon as he saw M’Candliss and Holmes, he veered toward them.
“Cap, Mr. Holmes—am I glad to see you! I couldn’t hardly believe it w
hen I heard all the commotion and looked out the window and there you were at the jail. I’d about given you both up for dead.”
“Providence has been on our side,” M’Candliss said. “So far. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
“What happened? Where’d you find Mr. Holmes?”
“I’ll fill you in on that later.”
Meckleburg looked along the much less populated street. “Where’d everybody scatter to?”
M’Candliss told him about the planned race by rail for Saddleback Gorge.
“Hell,” Meckleburg said, “why didn’t I think of that? It’s a good idea, Cap.”
“Good or bad—it’s the only idea we’ve got.”
With Meckleburg helping, M’Candliss took Clement Holmes inside the hotel and got him settled into bed in the room from which he’d been abducted. Exhaustedly, the diplomat shook M’Candliss’ hand.
“Good luck, Captain,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. We’ll need it.”
In the hallway outside, M’Candliss found Isabella Ortiz waiting when he and Meckleburg left the governor’s man. She had been resting in one of the rooms just down the hail and she had heard them come in. She looked tired, but her eyes were bright and eager. She seemed more than a little glad to see him alive and well.
M’Candliss quickly explained what he and the townspeople were going to do. Isabella wanted to go along too, but he vetoed the idea. “Somebody has to stay here and keep an eye on Mr. Holmes,” he said.
“Gueterma murdered my father,” she said. “Would you deny me the opportunity to kill him, Capitan? Or at least to watch him die?”
“I would and I am,” M’Candliss answered. “Your people need you, Isabella, just as our people need Clement Holmes. You can’t afford to risk your life any more right now.”
Isabella tried to argue, but M’Candliss remained adamant. He had developed a fondness for the Mexican woman—a deeper fondness that he was willing to admit to himself at the moment—and he was determined to keep her out of harm’s way. There was no telling what sort of carnage might take place at Saddleback Gorge; it was a certainty that there would be shooting, in any event, and that there would be casualties. Isabella wasn’t going to be one of them.
Border Fever Page 10
