by Will Cook
Miles Cardeen ate at sundown, or shortly after, for he was a man who worked from daylight to dark, and his supper was the most pleasant hour of the day for him, an hour spent with his wife and two daughters. Afterward, he always went to his porch to sit and smoke. His foreman would come across the yard and get the next day’s orders. They’d talk a while, settle what needed settling, then Cardeen would go in to read his paper a bit or listen to his older girl play the piano.
He was halfway through his cigar when a gun popped dully from somewhere away from the yard, then overhead there was another pop, and a star shell burst, spreading a bright light over the entire ranch yard and buildings. Cardeen was surprised, bewildered. He stood up and leaned over the railing to see what the devil was going on. He was standing that way when a machine gun rattled from some brush at the edge of the yard, and bullets slammed into him and tore splinters from the side of his house, and he fell dead.
Men poured from the bunkhouse, yelling and dashing across the yard, and the machine gun fired again and was joined by another placed at a broad angle. The men broke stride and dropped. A few made it to cover, but they had only their pistols and here and there a rifle.
A sudden commotion brought Colonel Gary from his room, and, when he stepped to the door, he saw most of the rangers standing in the yard, looking west at the bright light slowly falling from the sky.
“Star shell,” Gary said, and ran toward headquarters where Major Manners stood. “What’s out there, Major?”
“Cardeen’s place. What is it?”
“A star shell,” Gary said. “The Army uses them to light the field at night during an attack.”
“God damn!” Manners said, and began shouting his men to action. He split his command, for he had no other choice. In ten minutes he had twenty-five men mounted and was leading them at a fast pace toward the Cardeen ranch.
Martin Hinshaw had been left behind, whether by design or accident he never knew. He was none too happy about it. The corporal in charge saw that every man was armed with pistol and rifle and at his post around the stockade, then they settled down to wait. Hinshaw noticed Colonel Gary nearby and moved a bit closer.
The corporal came by, and Gary stopped him. “Anderson, I’d advise you to have the men dig in. The likelihood of an attack . . . .”
“The major didn’t say anything about that, Colonel.”
“Damn it, I know what he said!” Gary snapped. “That raid in all probability was a blind. They want Vargas. You’ve got to get the men under cover, in the buildings, in a dug-out hole, anything.”
“Colonel, I take orders just like you do,” Anderson said, and went on.
Gary pushed his rifle butt into the soft earth and furiously began to paw out a trench. Hinshaw watched him for a moment and thought that the idea had a lot of merit. He began digging, shoving the dirt away from him until he could stretch out flat or even roll over without exposing himself.
The night was very still, and beyond the lights of Laredo burned brightly. Gary snapped his fingers, drawing Hinshaw’s attention.
“Have you seen McCabe?”
“He went with the others,” Hinshaw said. “There’s only about twenty of us, Colonel.”
Not enough,” Gary said. “The smart thing to do would be to unlock the guardhouse door and turn the prisoner loose. It might save the lives of some good men.”
Cardeen’s house still stood, but the outbuildings were burned to the ground by the time Major Carl Manners and the rangers arrived. Quickly Manners took a grizzly inventory and knew that no one had survived the raid. Cardeen was dead and so were his nine men. Grady found Cardeen’s wife inside the house, dead, but he didn’t find the two girls.
Manners said: “Why do they always cut on them, McCabe?” He spoke softly with an angry tremor in his voice. “All right, mount up! We’re going back! Hurry it up there!” He swung to the saddle.
McCabe said: “Think we’ll get there in time to hit them from behind, Major?”
“That’s precisely what I mean to do,” Manners said. He gathered his force with a circular motion of the arm, then stormed out of the yard.
Manners knew that the raid had been a decoy, suspected it before he ever left the ranger camp, yet he had to play the game and hope he could turn it into his favor. The men he had left behind would put up a strong fight, and they might hold the bandits at bay until he could charge from the rear.
Never before had he been given the opportunity to conduct a military maneuver against the Mexican raiders. The rangers were always outnumbered in a headlong fight. Most of the time the bandits had disappeared by the time the law arrived on the scene. This time, he believed, it would be another story. He skirted the town with his men, riding across country, cutting three fences and fording two creeks to do it, and, as he neared the ranger camp, he heard the rattle of gunfire and the sharp chatter of a machine gun.
His men spread out in a line, swung into a curve, and closed in, blocking the bandits from a retreat to the river. Manners was elated, when they suddenly saw this new danger and turned on him. The rangers fired as they came on, and the machine gun dropped four horses and sent the men tumbling. Three never moved, but the fourth one crawled along the ground, dragging his wounded legs behind.
The firing lasted less than a minute, then it was finished, and Manners got off his jaded horse and shouted some order into the chaos. Lanterns were brought up, and men were detailed to duties. The guardhouse was checked, a useless gesture for the lock had been shot off the door, and Pedro Vargas was across the river. Five of the guards were dead and three others seriously wounded.
Piece by piece, Manners put it together, taking one report after another, as soon as he could summon the men. Colonel Jim Gary was more concise than the others. He came into Manners’s office with Hinshaw. They carried the machine gun and a metal case of ammunition.
“A German Spandau,” Gary said. His uniform was dirty, and he brushed at it. “They hit us ten minutes before you arrived, Major. Four men died in the first burst, then the guards took cover. Hinshaw and I had dug trenches, and we were able to pin the machine-gunner down with the rifle fire. However, it didn’t stop them from releasing the prisoner.”
“How many were in the raiding party?” Manners asked.
“Ten. Twelve at the most.” He patted the machine gun. “With this, ten is enough.”
“There were two of those damned things at the Cardeen Ranch,” McCabe said. “I saw Grady picking up some empty brass in a couple of places.”
“The surgeon ought to have a report in an hour,” Manners said wearily. He placed his hands flat on the desk. “Colonel Gary, I am formally requesting that you return to Washington immediately and ask the President of the United States to send federal troops. The Texas Rangers are no longer able to cope with a war of this magnitude.” He looked at Gary. “My clerk will put that in writing in the morning.”
“I’ll send the telegram tonight,” Gary said. “Major, you’re doing the right thing. But the Texas Rangers still have a job to do. A job I think the Army is ill-equipped to do.” He glanced at all of them, then slapped the water jacket of the machine gun. “Find the source of these weapons, and find the man who sells them, then leave him floating face down in the river. Waste no time on trials and free-talking lawyers. Find him and kill him.”
Guthrie McCabe laughed. “Now you’re talking like the old Jim Gary I used to ride with.”
“God help my soul,” Gary said. “I thought I’d outgrown my wicked ways.”
Chapter Twelve
Colonel Gary dispatched his five-page telegram, and the operator at Laredo picked it up and passed the somewhat stretched word over town so that, when the citizens’ delegation called on Major Manners the next morning, their rage had subsided to a blind fury. Fred Early was the leader and spokesman, and the citizens of Laredo were proud of the bold way he stood up to Manners and even cussed him out a bit for being an incompetent political bloodsucker. The rangers were in g
eneral ripped thoroughly for a dereliction of duty in permitting the raid on Cardeen’s place, and they all wanted to know what was being done about rescuing the two abducted girls.
Manners endured this without losing his temper, for it was part of his job to deal with the angry and the injured, the do-gooders and the self-glory seekers. He placated them and got rid of them, then poured a glass of whisky and drank it straight, and afterward threw the glass against the adobe wall of his office. Wisely he was left undisturbed for an hour.
Piedras Negras was a sleepy village across the river a hundred-odd miles northwest of Laredo. Guthrie McCabe, Marty Hinshaw, and Bill Grady forded it at dusk and entered the town. They watered their horses in the square, looked the place over carefully, then went to the cantina for something to eat and drink.
They did not look like Texas Rangers. McCabe was dressed in a dirty corduroy coat with a rent in one sleeve, his hat was sweat-stained, and the dirt of three days’ travel added to his ragged appearance. Whiskers on his face made him fierce in appearance, and, if he created the impression that here was a man who would kill another for five dollars, it was exactly what he wanted.
Travel and no razor and old clothes turned Hinshaw and Grady into convincing saddlebums. Other than first glances, they attracted no attention in the contina. They ate chili beans and drank tequila and left the place to wander around town. The lights in a store attracted them, and they went in. McCabe and Grady looked around, while Hinshaw ordered a side of bacon, some coffee, a box of cartridges, and a can of black saddle daub. They spent the night sleeping in the square, and they didn’t talk much until the town grew quiet.
Hinshaw said: “You see those knives and kettles and stuff? That’s what Fred Early peddles.”
McCabe grunted some soft reply, and opened the can of boot daub. He put some on his hands and began to massage it into his hair until the gray was completely gone. He looked like an entirely different man. “With all the years I’ve spent in this part of the country,” he said, “it just wouldn’t do for some chili bean to recognize me and pass the word along to Vargas. Tomorrow we’ll get out and see if we can pick up Vargas’s trail.”
“He won’t be easy to find,” Grady said.
“Didn’t say he would be,” McCabe said. “But I want to find those Cardeen girls and fetch ’em back while they still want to go back.”
“What do yo u. . . oh,” Hinshaw said, answering the question himself. “I never thought of that.”
“Think about it, then,” McCabe advised. “If Vargas don’t want ’em, he’ll give ’em to his lieutenants, and they’ll pass ’em on to the sergeants, and then the soldiers can have ’em. If they ain’t dead in two weeks, they won’t want to come back. We’ll work south in the morning.”
“What are we looking for exactly?” Grady asked.
“Some place where Mexican soldiers ain’t,” McCabe said. “There was a small garrison just outside of town, so I didn’t expect nothing here. The Mexican army is after Vargas, too, that is, if they want to collect the reward. It’s the rurales we’ll have to watch for, the police. They’re as bad as Vargas, only they wear uniforms.” He put his hat over his face. “Go to sleep. We’ll leave before sunup.”
They slept lightly. Before morning a squad of soldiers rode through town, waking them. It was the end of sleep. They got their horses, left Piedras Negras, and cut south. Before the day was out, they were in the mountains.
That night they had a fire, slept well, and were traveling before daylight. Two days more carried them near the village of Sabinas, a collection of adobes crowded against a small river. McCabe was in no hurry to enter the village, so they made camp high where they could study the land and the people down below. Hinshaw didn’t think too much of the idea until McCabe pointed out a few things: they hadn’t seen a sign of a soldier for two days, and there were too many people in that village for the size of it.
After Hinshaw was told these things, he saw that they were true. From all the goings and comings, he felt that they had stumbled on Pedro Vargas’s main camp. McCabe disagreed in that he felt that Vargas’s camp was nearby but not in the town. The Mexican bandit only used the town.
At sundown they mounted up and left their place in the mountains and took to the ridges, moving in a circling way until they got a good look at the passes in and out. Before dawn they heard a horse snort somewhere below, and they stopped and waited for daylight.
Vargas had his camp in a canon that at first glance seemed to have only one way in and out. A closer inspection revealed a narrow trail running from the floor to a far ridge. McCabe wanted to have a closer look at that.
This was no temporary quarters for the bandit, for crates were stacked about and several adobe buildings had been put up by a small creek that drained into the river. The rest was tents and lean-tos.
“Now ain’t that some nest of rattlesnakes?” McCabe observed.
Hinshaw agreed that it was, and Bill Grady silently wondered what three men thought they could do to a camp of five hundred. But the way McCabe figured it, there really weren’t five hundred. A hundred and fifty seemed to be in the village with another hundred drunk most of the time. He went to sleep, stretched out on a rock, as though he had already decided what to do and was just waiting for the right time to do it.
McCabe’s interest in the trail to the ridge was not whether or not he could navigate it, but whether or not he could block it easily. After a careful look, he decided that he could. With that settled, he got them together and laid it out plain and simple.
“If we’re going to get those girls, the best way is to go down and get ’em.”
“Just like that,” Hinshaw said.
“Move slow and you’ll get killed,” McCabe said. “Son, I’ve taken prisoners away from the Indians. I know how to do it.”
“Listen to the old man, squirt,” Grady said. “How do we do it?”
“It’s a safe bet the girls are locked up all the time,” McCabe said. “They wouldn’t have the run of the camp. How many buildings could be locked or guarded?”
“Four I counted,” Hinshaw said.
McCabe chuckled. “That narrows it down some, don’t it? Figure, too, that they don’t expect anyone to drop in suddenlike, and we’ve got a bit of an edge. We’ll go down tonight, about midnight.”
“Wouldn’t early morning be better?” Grady asked.
McCabe shook his head. “I want to give the ones a chance to get drunk who’re going to get drunk, and the ones who went to town a chance to get back and get asleep. We’ll move together, find the place the girls are locked in, then play it by ear. We’ll make it afoot all the way.”
“With your bad leg?” Hinshaw asked. “Hell, I’ll be carrying you up the pass. You keeled over in my lap once. So you just pull up your rocking chair and let the young in heart do the heavy work.”
“I’m going to pin your ears back for that,” McCabe said. “But this ain’t the time or place to do it. We’ll all go down. If you put a hand on me to help me, I’ll bend my gun barrel over your head.”
“He ain’t fooling, squirt,” Grady said.
“I’m getting a little tired of hearing you call me that,” Hinshaw said. He blew out a long breath. “’Scuse me for asking, Captain, but why is it so blamed important to get those Cardeen girls back? I can see some humanitarian reasons, but….”
“They marched with Vargas’s army,” McCabe said. “They’ve been in Vargas’s camp. As far as we know, they’ve seen more of the inside of Vargas’s army than anyone else. So anything they can tell us is to our good. That answer your question?”
“Sure enough,” Hinshaw said. “Well, let’s go down there and make the major proud of us.”
“In time,” McCabe said, “but now we wait.” He settled back and put his hands behind his head. “Come over here, son.” He waited until Hinshaw settled beside him. “There was a time when I wasn’t sure you had more nerve than good sense. But when we get into Vargas’s camp, I
’m relying on that good sense more than your nerve.”
“I don’t quite understand,” Hinshaw said.
“I’m talking about the way you feel about Mexicans,” McCabe said. “I want to get in that camp and out without firin’ a shot.” He turned his head and looked at Hinshaw. “Where’d you get your hate for Mexicans? Over the kitchen table? Most of it spreads that way. A kid will laugh and play with Mexican kids and figure he’s their best friend, then one day he’ll hear the old man call them spiks because he’s mad about something, and pretty soon the kid’s doing it, too, and you’ve got a hate growing. And the poor Mexican kids have been thinking that here’s a Texan that ain’t like the rest, but they soon change their minds. If we hadn’t taken Texas from the Mexicans, everything would be all right, but we’ve just got to hate what we defeat, or so it seems.”
“Did you ever know the Rameras family, McCabe?” Hinshaw asked.
“Tolerably well,” he said. “Why?” Then he looked again at Martin Hinshaw. “Say! Hinshaw! The name suddenly means something to me. Are you related to the Hinshaw who fought the whole damned Rameras family to a draw over some land?”
“That was my pa,” he said. “McCabe, I learned my hate from the worst kind of Mexican, the Mexican with money, with land. Pa was squatting right in the middle of what Rameras claimed was all his land. Only it wasn’t, and he knew it. When I was a kid, I used to take some damned good beatings from Batiste Rameras and his two brothers.” He looked at McCabe. “I wasn’t in that fight. No, I was smarter than that. I ran out on Pa and went to rodeo bumming. He fought ’em alone, much to my regret.”
“He done a good job, too,” McCabe said. “Of course, if he’d lived, they’d probably have tried him and hung him. Texas has outgrown her feudin’ days. One of the Rameras boys survived. The oldest one, Batiste. He hung between life and death for months, but he recovered. Now he runs a saddle shop and feed business in Laredo. It’ll only be a matter of time before you two run into each other. When that happens, remember you’re a Texas Ranger and not some rowdy looking for a fight.”
