The Thunder Riders

by Frank Leslie

  “I’ve been working my shotgun ranch,” he said, savoring every moment of the girl’s beauty. “Had no time for town—till I saw my tea tin was empty.”

  “Stop by for a drink later.” She grinned and thrust a hip out, let her eyes flicker across his chest and shoulders. She tossed her straight black hair back. “First one’s on the house, and Old Antoine’s got soup on the stove, though I won’t vouch for how good it is. I didn’t see him throw any rats in it.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Sounds right delicious.”

  He turned forward and gigged the black down the dusty, bustling street, moving through wagons, horseback riders, and the occasional mining rig drawn by donkeys. Dogs and goats ran loose in the streets, and chickens scratched in front of the old brush-thatched dwellings owned by members of the original Mexican families.

  He wanted to visit the sheriff’s office about as much as he wanted to run barefoot across hot coals, but it wouldn’t be right not to inform the lawman about the Apaches running wild. Crossing to the far side of town, he pulled up before the small sandstone building housing the sheriff’s office and jail. A brush arbor shaded a six-foot patch of hard-packed dirt in front of the building.

  Yakima wrapped Wolf’s and the packhorse’s reins over the hitchrack, before which three saddle horses stood hanging their heads. He mounted the stoop and knocked once on the stout cottonwood door, then tripped the metal latch and stepped inside.

  He stopped just over the threshold. The sheriff sat behind his desk on the room’s right side while three other men sat to his left, in spool-back chairs. The three men— all dressed in dusty trail garb and battered Stetsons, with six-shooters on their hips and Winchester carbines resting across their laps—turned to Yakima suddenly, surprised by the interruption.

  The sheriff turned also, ridging his shaggy sand-colored brows. Mitch Speares was big and rangy, in his mid-thirties, and wore two Remingtons, positioned for the cross draw, on his narrow hips. His thick silver-blond hair hung over his collar, his bangs combed low across his right eye. His brushy mustache and sideburns were a couple of shades darker than his hair, and his dung-brown eyes were set close to his wedge-shaped, sun-blistered nose.

  Yakima kept his left hand on the door handle. “Sorry for intrudin’, Sheriff.”

  “What’s the matter with you, breed? Can’t you see I’m in a meetin’ here?”

  Yakima shrugged and stepped back, pulling the door closed. “Have it your way, Sheriff.”

  Speares scowled. His swivel chair squawked as he stood and shouted, “Well, what the hell you want?”

  Yakima opened the door again, but remained outside. “Just thought you might wanna know about the Apaches who paid me a visit last night. I think it was the same bunch that killed Lars Schempelfennig yesterday.”

  “Schempelfennig? Who the hell cares? That crazy desert rat’s been pushin’ his luck far longer than it would have held for most folks in ’Pache country.”

  “Just thought I’d mention it.” Yakima’s gaze was blank, but his lips twisted in a smile. “If I recollect, there’s a few shotgun ranches in that area. I figured it might be your job to warn them if you heard Chiricahuas had jumped the reserve and taken to the warpath.”

  As Yakima began drawing the door closed again, Speares said, “Hold on, goddamn it. Get your ass in here, breed.”

  Feigning a guileless look, Yakima moved into the sheriff’s small, dim office, leaving the door half open behind him. Small gaps between the rocks of the building’s wall shone with brassy daylight. Dust motes slanted through the light shafts. A couple of prisoners slumped on the jail cots at the back of the room. One, who had one foot on the floor, was loudly sawing logs while a rat nibbled off the tin plate near his boot.

  Speares looked at Yakima distastefully. “Where was Schempelfennig’s place exactly?”

  “Torcido Gulch.”

  “How far up?”

  “Three miles after the red cliffs.”

  Speares looked at one of the men seated to his right. “Doesn’t Rack Lewis have a place up that way?”

  One of the men—stocky, unshaven, and wearing hemp suspenders—nodded. “Bill Larsen has a horse ranch just east of Rack’s. Have ’em about ten kids between the two of ’em.”

  One of the other deputies turned to Yakima, scowling as he said, “Yeah, but Larsen’s kids are all half-breeds.”

  The deputies chuckled, shoulders jerking.

  Speares glanced at the man who’d spoken last. “Leo, you better ride out an’ warn ’em.”

  Leo frowned. “What about the gold shipme—” He cut himself off, glanced at Yakima, then returned his gaze to the sheriff. “You didn’t deputize us fellas to be errand boys, Mitch. Besides, I won’t get back before—”

  He stopped again when the sheriff turned his stony eyes on him. “You’ll get full pay whether you’re here or not.” Speares’s tone was at once reasonable and sharp-edged. “Now ride on out an’ warn Lewis and Larsen about the Apache trouble. In addition to your regular pay, there’ll be a bottle in it for you. Maybe I’ll even be able to coax one of the whores over to the Mexican’s place to spread her legs for ya—if’n you finally take a bath.”

  The other deputies chuckled as Leo’s face turned red behind his three-day growth of beard. With an injured expression, he stood, donned his hat, and hefted his rifle. As he brushed past Yakima, he cut a hard glance to the half-breed, then strode out the door and spat loudly under the brush arbor.

  Yakima looked at the sheriff, then turned toward the door.

  “Henry.”

  Yakima swung back to Speares, who stood facing him, thumbs hooked behind his cartridge belt as he rose up and down on his boot toes. “Make sure you’re out of town by sundown. I don’t want you breakin’ up any more saloons.”

  One of the remaining deputies chuckled and gave one corner of his waxed mustache a twist. “I heard him and some Mex really tore apart the Saguaro Inn. Left a good bit of blood on the floor, too.”

  Yakima kept his eyes on the sheriff. “I’ll be leavin’ first thing in the morning—after I’ve bought the supplies I need.”

  Speares slitted his left eye. “Think so, do ya?”

  Yakima splayed his fingers on his thigh, in front of the holstered, stag-butted Colt, and held the lawman’s hard gaze. The deputies shuttled glances between Yakima and the sheriff. It was suddenly so quiet that the rat could be heard making soft snick-snick sounds as it nibbled bread from the tin plate in the cell.

  Speares smiled. “I reckon it is gettin’ a mite late to be headin’ back through ’Pache country. I’ll relax my rules just this once. Just make sure you stay away from Charlier’s. Understand?”

  Yakima kept his expression neutral, but he felt a devilishtingle. Normally, to avoid trouble, he would have done what the sheriff ordered. But he wasn’t much in the mood for following orders. He shook his head.

  “Can’t do that neither, Sheriff. Miss Anjanette already offered me a drink. Standin’ her up wouldn’t be polite.”

  One of the sitting deputies said slowly, “Why, that smart-ass—”

  “Now, now, Charlie,” Speares said, lifting the corners of his mouth once more as he continued locking gazes with Yakima. “No point in gettin’ our fur up. Ain’t healthy.” He reached into the breast pocket of his collarless pin-striped shirt and flipped a coin to Yakima, who grabbed it out of the air. “First drink’s on me, breed. We’ll be seein’ you later.”

  Yakima flipped the nickel in his hand. “Obliged.” Pocketing the coin, he stepped straight back out the door, then grabbed both sets of reins off the hitchrack and, keeping an eye on the sheriff in the jailhouse’s dim interior, swung onto the black and pulled the two horses into the street.

  In the jailhouse office, Speares watched the half-breed ride away, his heart thudding, his gut burning, then turned to the two deputies sitting tensely, staring at him curiously.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he barked. “Be back at first light with those ri
fles loaded. We’ll head from here to the bank. Do not—I repeat, do not—be late!”

  The two men whom Speares had deputized an hour ago to help make sure the gold shipment made it from tomorrow’s stage safely into the bank vault, lurched to their feet and filed quickly out the door.

  When they were gone, Speares sagged into his chair. He continued staring at the empty doorway, his eyes stony, his lips bunched with fury, and slipped one of his long-barreled Remingtons from its cross-draw holster. He flicked open the Remy’s loading gate, took a cartridge from a leather loop on his belt, and filled the chamber he normally kept empty beneath the hammer.

  Speares cursed and spun the cylinder, then snapped around in his chair to face the cell directly behind him. Inside, the mule skinner, Kirby Yates, whom Speares had arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct at four o’clock in the morning, continued snoring loudly. Thumbing the Remington’s hammer back, Speares extended the pistol straight out from his shoulder and fired through the bars of Yates’s cell door.

  The pistol report sounded like a cannon blast in the close quarters.

  Both prisoners leapt up on their cots with startled grunts and groans. “What the hell was that?” bellowed Yates, jerking his foot off the floor and craning his head toward his blood-splattered plate.

  Speares lowered the smoking revolver and turned toward the door, holding the Remy in both hands as though weighing it.

  “Rat,” Speares said as he flicked open the loading gate and removed the spent shell.

  Chapter 4

  Yakima cut a look over his left shoulder as he angled across the street toward the Arizona Livery and Feed Barn. Mitch Speares had been an outlaw longer than he’d been a sheriff—it was widely known that the man had been a regulator in Wyoming and Colorado and was probably still wanted up that way—and Yakima knew he wasn’t above trying to backshoot an adversary.

  The sheriff did not appear in his open doorway, so Yakima rode the black up the livery barn’s hay-covered ramp. He ducked under the heavy freight hook hanging from the loft and clomped on into the barn’s shadows, which were thick with the smell of hay, manure, and livestock.

  A voice rose from the darkness on his left. “Well, I’ll be damned. I figured you’d know enough to stay outta town after what happened last time.”

  The liveryman ambled out of the shadows, a hay stem wedged in his big yellow teeth, his snakeskin galluses bowing over his bulging paunch. He held a worn bridle in his gloved hand. Scowling, he tipped his leather-billed immigrant cap off his freckled forehead.

  “What happened last time wasn’t my doin’.” Yakima slipped his Winchester from his saddle boot and slung his saddlebags over his right shoulder. “Besides, I worked off my bill at the Saguaro Inn. Split enough wood to last ’em the next three winters.”

  “That ain’t what I’m talkin’ about,” said the liveryman, whose name was Charlie Suggs. “I’m talkin’ about that Mex you fought. He sees you in town, he’s gonna want some payback for cuttin’ off his finger.”

  “I’ll give him one of mine. Feel better?” Yakima reached into a front pocket and flipped a gold piece in the air. “One dollar in advance. I’ll pick up both horses first thing in the morning.”

  Suggs closed his fist around the coin and continued scowling at Yakima. “You can find yourself an alley tonight, too. I don’t want you in here. Damn it, Saber Creek is a civilized town, and uncivilized folk need to stay in the mountains where they belong.”

  “That free?”

  Suggs squinted and cocked his head. “Huh?”

  “That advice free?”

  The liveryman filled his lungs. His round bearded face turned red. “Yeah, it’s free!”

  “Good, because I just came to have my horses stabled. Grain ’em and rub ’em down and go easy on the water till they cool.”

  Yakima headed toward the open door.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” Yakima glanced over his shoulder. “Clean out their hooves and check their shoes.”

  As he descended the ramp to the street, casting a cautious glance toward the jailhouse on his right, he heard the liveryman grumbling behind him, “Shore are cheeky for a dirt-worshiper!”

  The wind was kicking up as the sun angled behind the distant sawtooth ridges. Yakima squinted his eyes against the blowing dust and straw as he headed west, stepping over fresh horse apples and goat dung.

  As he approached Charlier’s—a two-story adobe built in the old Spanish style, with a couple of small balconies with wrought-iron railings on the second floor—a tumbleweed flew toward him, and he ducked. The weed continued on past him and pasted itself against the front window of Thaddeus Wilford’s undertaking parlor.

  Gentle piano music filtered out of the tavern before him, sounding beneath the moaning wind like a spring rain on a tin roof. Half a dozen horses were tied to the hitchrack, and loud male voices spilled over the batwing doors.

  Mounting the porch fronting Charlier’s, Yakima paused to peer over the scarred batwings. The room was about half full, and tobacco smoke wafted up to the low, herringbone-patterned ceiling. Several Mexican freighters in dusty trail garb sat in the shadows to the left. Most of the other tables were occupied by American cowboys, Mexican vaqueros, mule skinners, drifters, and a few burly, sun-seared prospectors in hobnailed boots. A short, skinny Mexican with a receding hairline and a handlebar mustache was playing the piano.

  Anjanette was running drinks from the bar while her pugnacious grandfather, Old Antoine, set them up and served the four men bellied up to the mahogany. Yakima made for a table in the room’s far right corner, weaving around the other tables and avoiding outstretched legs and beer pooling on the stone tiles. He set his saddlebags and rifle on the table, kicked out a chair, and was about to sit down when someone poked his back.

  He turned. Anjanette smiled up at him, a beer in one hand, a shot in the other. The red bandanna held her coal black hair back from her face. Her voice was raspy. “Something to cut the trail dust?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Just the beer. I don’t drink the hard stuff in town.” He reached for his right hip pocket.

  “I told you, first one’s on the house.” Anjanette set the beer on the table, straightened, and swept her hair behind her shoulder. Her breasts swelled up from the low-cut shirtwaist that she’d donned for the evening trade, and her cheeks were flushed. “You hungry?”

  “Maybe later. I’ll enjoy the beer first. Been a while since I’ve had anything to imbibe with.”

  “Let me know. Antoine has split-pea soup and bacon sandwiches. Gotta cover some ground. Friday night!” The girl turned and strode back through the tables toward the bar, her skirts billowing out from her full hips and thighs.

  Yakima sat down and watched her round ass as she swerved around a ceiling joist from which a lantern and ristra hung. He wasn’t the only one appreciating Anjanette’s wares. Nearly every table she passed fell silent while the mule skinners and drovers hung their jaws and stared.

  Yakima sipped the beer and grunted ironically. He ought to come to town more often. . . .

  He crossed his boots on a chair and settled back in his seat, enjoying Old Antoine’s yeasty ale and rolling a cigarette from his makings sack. When he’d finished the drink, Anjanette brought him a bowl of soup, a sandwich of grilled, buttered bread piled with thickly sliced bacon, and a mug of freshly drawn ale.

  “That’s some kind of service,” he told the girl as she collected his empty mug.

  “You looked hungry.”

  Yakima reached into his pocket, but she waved him off. “Your money’s no good here, Yakima Henry.”

  She flashed a smile as she wheeled and headed toward the bar, carrying the tray high on her right shoulder. He felt his pulse in his neck. He didn’t know why he was tormenting himself. He had no future with Anjanette, as he’d had no future with Faith, the lovely blond doxie in Colorado.

  Really, he had no future with any woman. Having been raised in the tall-an
d-uncut, he was at home only in the far, lonely reaches. It was no life for a woman—at least no woman he’d met so far.

  Still, he entertained a brief fantasy of finally settling down with a woman, of waking up to one every morning, going to bed with one every evening. Sitting down to table with a woman for buttery soup and a thick sandwich like the one he was eating now. Having someone to talk to about what he’d done or was going to do, or about how he felt or what he was thinking about.

  That might be a nice way to live. Maybe, when he was older and didn’t mind giving up his freedom, he’d give it serious consideration. . . .