by Chuck Tyrell
McLaws tried again. “Horse soldiers close?”
Norrosso looked out over the barren landscape of gray clay, red sandstone, and black malapai ridges. He shrugged.
“Why are you on my trail, Norrosso? What have I done that your horse soldiers would want to catch me?”
Norrosso flicked a glance at McLaws. Then he spoke. “Captain Leach says find Taawe the hawk, we look for Taawe.”
McLaws finished binding Norrosso’s thumbs together with a twisted leather strap. “I can’t let you free wawaira,” using the Yaqui word for a relative, “but if the troops are close, you’ll make it.” He tied Narrosso’s ankles together and bent them back. With a pigging string, he tied Norrosso’s legs up to his thumbs, stretching them tightly.
He stood back. “You’ll probably be able to get outta them straps, but it’ll take a while. He mounted the strawberry and paused. “My people the Yaqui would be free. Even if it means Yaqui blood.”
The path he took on the strawberry led where no man would go of his own volition. Ordinarily, Alfredo McLaws might be tempted to declare war on anyone following him. But now he couldn’t afford such recklessness. Ordinarily, any day was a good day to die as far as McLaws was concerned. Ordinarily. But that word no longer defined McLaws’s life. He could no longer afford to be reckless, for in his possibles bag, he bore a letter, which promised assistance—money and men—to Cajeme, the leader of the Yaqui resistance in Mexico.
Yaqui lands were now limited to six settlements on Rio Yaqui in the south. Some had moved north into Arizona as well. Their land bordered on what the Mexicans call the Sea of Cortez. Cortez. McLaws grimaced. Cortez. Filthy dung-eating Spaniard. Why should Yaqui waters be named for some gut-rotten Don? He, who was half Scot by accident of birth, felt the invasion of newcomers perhaps more than the farmers and the fishermen in the south. Yaquis made great warriors when pressed beyond endurance, but normally they lived placid lives, raising corn, beans, and squash, or fishing for dolphin fish, albacore, groupers, and sea bass. They picked mussels and oysters from the rocks and occasionally found pearls in the oysters.
McLaws rode straight out into a land marked by ancient lava flows and sediment that was once an ocean floor. Hoodoos stood watch, seeming to laugh at the single man on a strawberry roan. But he’d taken this route before. None could follow unless they knew as much about the malpais as McLaws, and few did.
An hour or so into the badlands area known as Vientre del Diablo by the Mexicans, McLaws reined in the strawberry, dismounted, and removed the rawhide boots from the horse’s hooves. For a fleeting second, he wondered if Norrosso had slipped his bonds yet.
Any cowboy can ride twenty miles without a second thought. McLaws let the strawberry walk farther and farther into Vientre del Diablo. High in the hills that lay south across the barrens, winds and sand had carved huge basins in the native stone called tinajas, natural tanks that stored the parsimonious rainfall for months. At the tinajas, McLaws planned to refill his big four-quart canteen and give the strawberry a good long drink.
He took the long way around to the tinajas, but even a warrior as alert as McLaws cannot see everything. He stopped the strawberry in the broken land where he was harder to see. His black Yaqui eyes searched the probable hiding places for the slightest sign of anything unnatural or out of place. Nothing. He looked at the sky. No zopilote buzzards circling. No clouds to shade the fierce sun. He scanned the area again. Nothing moved. Not even a dung beetle.
McLaws dismounted from the offside. People naturally expected riders to get off their horses from the onside. Doing the unexpected helps keep a man alive, McLaws’s daddy always said. But he was dead.
He pulled his Ballard .50 from the saddle scabbard as he dismounted, so he was armed with a long gun, a short gun, and a Bowie when a bullet took the strawberry down. It hit the horse under the right ear, just above the jaw. The sound of the gun said it was a big one, a Creedmore or a Sharps, maybe even a Ballard. Whatever big gun it was, its two ounces of lead put the strawberry down without so much as a twitch.
Apache was McLaws’s immediate thought as he dived for cover behind the strawberry’s carcass. Damn people who’d kill a good horse. No need to kill the horse just to get the man. McLaws ground his teeth together.
Not the first time for McLaws to be afoot. In fact, as a boy in Cocorit, He’d often vied with brother Yaqui youths to see who could go longest and walk farthest without water. But those were games and there was always water nearby for those who’d had enough of the game.
Smoke from the gun that killed the strawberry showed McLaws where the bushwhacker had been. Which of course did not show where the shooter was. McLaws lay in the shadow of the strawberry for somewhat over an hour. No one came looking for him. He put his battered Stetson on the barrel of his short gun and lifted it above the dead horse. A shot would give McLaws an idea of the shooter’s position.
No shot came.
McLaws stood.
No shot.
A suspicion entered his head. Damn. He trudged to the tinaja without appearing to watch his surroundings. It held a couple of inches of water. It also held a dead horse. Damned Apaches. How come they kill horses so easy? He knew the answer. Most Apache warriors could travel as far and as fast on his own two feet as a horse could on four.
Likely the shooter or shooters were gone. McLaws didn’t bother trying to fill his canteen in the tinaja.
He had half a canteen of water, and if he drank all he could of the strawberry’s blood, he could go a far way before the heat and the thirst got him.
Jason Bennington Bills sawed on the reins to bring the slim mare pulling his buggy to a stop. “Damn stupid animal,” he muttered. How was it a smart man had to depend on a dumb horse to get around? He left the little mare standing between the shafts and walked resolutely toward the courthouse. In there, his intellect brought him to the fore. Bills considered himself the very best at presenting arguments to juries. More often than not, he won. He pushed the big wooden door open and stepped into the smell of leather and cigar smoke and . . . and . . . and fear. That’s what it was, fear. An oily subtle odor that a good lawyer detects when his client tells him lies. Fear.
“Counselor,” the guard said, bringing his meaty hand up in a salute.
“Cruthers,” Bills said. He prided himself on remembering the names of lowly creatures. Who knew when they might come in handy. “It’ll be a hot one today,” he said over his shoulder. Now the guard would feel he’d had a conversation with Jason Bills. And that was good, too.
He strode down the hall, a slight man of average height in a tall silk hat, and rapped on the door to the chambers of Ellison Ward, Superior Court Justice. Without waiting for an answer, Bills turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Suzanne Willis, secretary to the judge, let out a little squeak and clambered off Judge Ward’s lap.
“Really, Ellison. Should you not lock the door before engaging in amorous pursuits?”
“Shee-it, man. Who cares?”
Bills curled his lip. The expression could be interpreted as a smile or a sneer, depending on the other person’s viewpoint. Judge Ward was elected, a politician. His free-range language never seemed to keep him from garnering the votes necessary to retain his judgeship.
“If that’s the way you see it,” Bills said. He leaned over Ward’s huge oak desk. “What do you hear from the federal authorities?”
Ward straightened up and wiped at the lip rouge on his cheek with a bandana. How he knew it was there, God only knows. Ward’s face changed from its good ol’ boy mien to one of hard planes and sharp edges. “The U.S. Marshals are after the Yaqui,” he said. “Just like we planned. And while they chase his shadow, we can get things set up to annex the land north of a straight line across from Nogales to Peñasco and that will give Arizona seaports. Just think what kind of trade we can muster up then.”
“Not too hasty, please, Your Honor. Now that the marshals have their attention diverted, we can commenc
e preparations.” Bills’ smile came nowhere near his eyes. “Your role shall come in time,” he said, “but I would recommend that your keep your penis in your pants and your hands out from under feminine skirts. The least we need at this point is a judicial scandal.”
Judge Ward puffed up. “Now you listen to me, you pretentious little turd.” He slapped both hands down on top of the desk and jumped to his feet. Judge Ellison Ward towered over Jason Bills. The top of Bills’ silk hat, which he had not removed, did not even come up to Judge Ward’s eyebrows. “You come in here with your toilet water and your fifty-dollar words, but let me ask you this. Who gets the votes in this county? Hey? Who fought Masai’s renegades at Apache Pass? Hey? And who gives the people of this county the justice they want? Hey?” Ward thumped his thick chest. “Me, that’s who. Ellison McKinley Ward. That’s who.”
Bills held up his small hands palms toward the irate judge. “Don’t get upset, please, Your Honor. I’m merely attempting to point out possible folly in your deportment. As you are undoubtedly well aware, with our plan, while very bold and most attainable, we must comport ourselves in manners that are above the least reproach. If one of us were to cause a third party to become angry, that party might dig into affairs that have nothing to do with the reason for their anger. Do you not think so, Your Honor?”
“I still get the goldarn votes,” Ward said.
“Yes, sir, you do, and that is vital to our success in this venture, I hasten to assure you.”
“Harrrumph.” Ward sat down. He pulled out a desk drawer and extracted a nearly full bottle of Jameson. “Coffee!” he shouted.
“Just a minute, Ells,” Suzanne called from the little room off the Judge’s Chambers.
“Ells?” Bills said.
“Awww. She likes to call me Ells. Cain’t hurt nothing.”
The silence stretched on. The clink of utensils came from the other room.
“Can it?” Ward said.
“I’m not going to answer that, Your Honor. I will not be here to oversee your every move and every word you utter, but I do suggest that you should start having even your friends refer to you as ‘Your Honor’.”
Bills adjusted the silk hat to a foursquare position on his large head. “I shall leave now, Your Honor. I have military arrangements to make. Your rulings on the legality of our militia will soon be needed. If you please.”
Judge Ward stood the bottle of Jameson on his desk. “Not even gonna have a shot for the road?”
“Now is not the time for imbibing, Your Honor. I must maintain a clear head and have total control of all my faculties. This is a critical moment in the history of Arizona.”
“Ells?” Suzanne came into the chambers with a coffee pot in one hand and two mugs clutched by their handles in the other. “Just like always?”
“Counselor’s leaving,” Ward said. “Pour one. Unless you want a cup.”
“Suzanne,” Bills said.
The woman ignored him. She set the mugs on the desk and filled one a little over half full. “There,” she said.
“Suzanne.”
“Where do you want me to sit, Ells?” she asked Ward.
Before Ward could answer, Bills almost shouted, “Suzanne!”
She turned her head slightly so she could see Bills from the corner of her eye. “Are you speaking to me, little man?”
“Be nice to the counselor, Suzanne,” Ward said.
“Why? He’s never nice to me. Most of the time he makes me think I’m a ghost or a spirit or something else that he can’t even see. It’s like I’m not even alive to him.” She pouted.
“This is not a time for personal differences, Suzanne. I have but one request of you.”
Suzanne put the coffee pot on the desk and faced Bills, her hands on her hips and her arms akimbo. “And what would that be, little man?”
“Would you please have the courtesy to call Judge Ward ‘Your Honor’ whenever others are in the room? It would be even better if you would agree to do so at all times, as that would get you into the habit. Please.” Bills looked as if the last word tasted terribly bitter.
Suzanne looked at Ward, who gave her a little nod. “OK, little man. I can do that.”
“Now. Please.” Again, the bitter face.
“Yer Onner.”
“Again.”
“Yer Onner.”
Bills sighed. “I suppose that will have to do. I haven’t the time or the inclination to correct your pronunciation.” He wheeled and strode to the door with as much dignity as he could muster, and shut the door with a thud as he left.
Outside the judge’s chambers, he stopped and listened. He thought he heard Suzanne giggle and imagined she was back in the same position as when he opened the door earlier. He sighed. If Judge Ellison Ward were not so important to the plan to take a bite out of Mexico, he’d find a way to bring him down, just like he’d done with Judge Wilson in Lincoln County.
The little bay mare stood quietly between the shafts of Bills’s buggy. Her ribs showed beneath her dull coat of hair. Her legs splayed slightly and her nose nearly touched the ground.
Bills hardly glanced at the horse as he got to the buggy. He pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves, used a finger to wipe dust from the dashboard, and climbed into the buggy, which was a little tall for a man his size. He picked up the reins and clucked to the little mare. With great effort, she lifted her head and took a few steps along the street. Impatient with her lack of speed, Bills slapped her with the reins. “Come on, stupid horse. Giddup.” The mare bobbed her head as if trying to answer Bills’s command, but could not muster more than a trudging walk.
“Stupid horse,” Bill’s shouted. “Giddup.” He plucked the buggy whip from its socket and applied its cutting lash to the mare’s rump. Her head came up and her eyes showed their whites. She lunged against the harness and the buggy jolted forward, throwing Bills back against the seat rest. She lunged against the harness again, then crumpled to the dusty street, dead.
Chapter Three
Saif was a proud Arabian. He’d been damaged by Jake Cahill’s rowdies. They’d cut away half his pride while Cahill was beating Stryker. They’d crowed and galloped about, puny men with one bloody testicle held high above their heads. Saif healed as Stryker healed. Scarred but unbowed.
Stryker rode Saif into Lone Pine Canyon late in the afternoon. He opened the gate from his saddle, rode Saif through, then swung the gate back into place and dropped the leather loop over the post to hold it closed. For a moment, he admired the gate and the pole fence. Falan Wilder built his horse ranch right, no doubt about it. Stryker kept the stream on his right as he rode up the canyon. Saif tossed his head, then raised his muzzle, testing the wind.
A bugle came from far upstream. The wind was at Stryker’s back, so scent of Saif had no doubt carried up-canyon to the boss of Wilder’s herd. He patted Saif’s arched neck. “No need to quarrel, old son. This here’s his country, not ours.”
A little gray horse thundered off the ridge to the left, ridden by a slight man with a red and brown and purple serape over one shoulder and around his chest. He carried a ’73 Winchester in one hand and the Bowie at his side hung halfway down his leg, it seemed.
Stryker held up a hand and pulled Saif to a halt. Saif stood with all four legs planted firmly, ready to spring in any direction Stryker wanted him to. Stryker kept his hands on the saddle horn.
The young man brought the gray filly to a hopping stop about a dozen yards away.
“I’ll be Matt Stryker.”
The youngster nodded. “Sparrow,” he said. “Jaime Sparrow.”
“I’m looking for Falan Wilder,” Stryker said. “The one they call ‘Wolf.’ He around?”
Sparrow nodded. “Yes. But not until the sun is down. Come.” He reined the gray filly around and started up the canyon.
Saif followed her gladly, though Stryker kept him from getting too close.”
A bugle came again from farther up the canyon.
“Big Red does not like your stallion, Matt Stryker,” Sparrow said over his shoulder. “He would die to protect his mares.”
“Soon as we talk to Wolf, we’ll be gone.”
Sparrow nodded without turning his head.
The stream came through a natural cut about three miles up the canyon, and the sun touched the pines on the ridges as Sparrow led Stryker through the narrow gorge the stream had cut in eons past. The main meadows of Wilder’s Flying W ranch spread out before them, a good mile wide on each side of the stream and two miles deep, narrowing as it approached the Mogollon Rim.
Big Red the stallion bugled his indignation at being unable to carry the fight to Saif, who shook his head and got ready to answer the challenge. Stryker slapped him on the neck. “Quiet,” he said. “This ain’t the place to get in a row over mares you’ve never even seen.”
Saif caught the sharp tone in Stryker’s voice and let the hump in his back settle down.
The headquarters of the Flying W was little more than two cabins with a dog run between them. Barns stood farther back into the narrow part of the canyon, and corrals extended down to the stream. A slim woman stood in the yard as Sparrow and Stryker rode up. Stryker doffed his hat. “Matthew Stryker, Ma’am,” he said. “I need to talk to Wolf Wilder.”
“I am Blessing,” she said. “Blessing Wilder.” A youngster peeked from the door, then stumbled outside with arms spread wide. “Sparrow,” the toddler screeched. “Sparrow.”
Sparrow seemed a bit embarrassed, but he swung a leg over the saddle horn and dropped lightly to the ground. “Hey, wolf cub,” he said.
The boy ran to Sparrow as fast as his chubby legs could carry him. Sparrow lifted the child, swung him around to peals of laughter, then straddled the boy on his shoulders.
“Pardon us, Mr. Stryker,” Blessing said.
Stryker smiled, though he knew that Blessing saw a grimace among his facial scars. “You have a fine son, Mrs. Wilder. I’m sure you are proud of him.”
