Hard Trail to Socorro (Bodie Kendrick - Bounty Hunter Book 1)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  Kendrick's biggest remaining concern was for additional water. The ridge had begun to change significantly over the past couple miles, had begun to flatten out and become more broken, its structure less inclined toward high, sharply sloping run-off peaks above mid-height crevices and depressions in the kind of combinations where he'd been able to successfully find trapped water so far. They could make it through the rest of the day and night on the water they had. After that their condition would worsen in a hurry, even if they started the planned withdraw from the Jornada. As they angled into the river valley, of course, the chances of finding new water would increase, but their progress in the meantime could be seriously threatened.

  Recognizing there was nothing he could do about the problem for the time being, however, the bounty hunter put the matter temporarily from his mind and concentrated on getting some much-needed rest. Once he’d satisfied himself Ludek was secure, he stretched out atop his bedroll and fell into the deepest slumber he'd allowed himself in days.

  When dusk came, Veronica made a spread of jerky and beans and stewed tomatoes and they ate an unhurried supper. There were still five cans of fruit left—peaches and pears—along with plenty of jerky. They didn't lack for food; and the fruit juices, Kendrick knew, would help offset a degree of human thirst. But that wasn't going to do the horses any good, not if he wasn't able to find fresh water by morning. He had spoken nothing of his concerns along those lines, but neither Veronica nor Ludek were stupid. That they recognized the potential problem was evidenced by the fact they had both noticeably curbed their water consumption all afternoon and Veronica made no suggestion of fixing coffee with the meal.

  With darkness settling, they rode out to begin the night's journey. Kendrick set their pace at a steady gait. The night wrapped around them, bright and still and progressively colder.

  As the hours and miles drifted by, he twice signaled a halt when he thought he saw a promising formation up on the ridge. At closer examination, though, neither spot yielded the hoped for result. The second one he climbed up to investigate held some dampened sand in a shallow rock gash, but that was as close at it got.

  Daybreak came around. Whitish gray fingers reaching tentatively into the sky above the eastern horizon of rolling dunes, brightening to a pinkish gold glow, then flaring to a dazzling, cloudless cobalt blue. The temperature shifted. Heat began to build rapidly.

  Kendrick stopped to water the horses, splitting what was left in the big water bag evenly among the four animals. The beasts were tired, but still strong and durable, capable of going miles further if pushed ... and miles beyond that if more water could be provided them.

  The lava ridge they had been following so tenaciously—their lifeline, in essence—had broken up more and more throughout the night. Its peaks were increasingly erratic, the highest ones now barely half as high as they had consistently reached before. Often the ridge fell away almost to nothing, leaving boulder-strewn gaps blown over with rippled gypsum dunes. It no longer held potential for water traps, and it scarcely offered shade from the sun or cover in case of danger.

  Kendrick reckoned they had covered in excess of twenty-five miles during the night, a good piece of ground. And prior to that another eight to ten miles during the punishing morning ride away from the lava pocket. The time was right to make the turn out of the Jornada and begin the final leg to Socorro.

  As he passed the canteen on its emptying round to Veronica, Kendrick laid things on the line. "We ain't got it licked yet, but we’re ready to start the home stretch. That's the good news. And we should be well north of any of the Apache trouble. But I figure we still got close to a full day's ride at a pretty steady clip ahead of us, the first part getting out of this desert. Water's going to be a problem, as you can see for yourselves. At worst, we should reach the Rio Grande by late afternoon or evening. If that's the first water we find, the horses are going to be mighty played out. I think they're up to it, though, as long as we don't try to push them too hard."

  "They'll be up to it," Veronica said confidently. "They have to be; and so do we." She held the canteen for Ludek. "You see, Ludek, our bones aren’t going to end up in this desert after all."

  "Maybe not," Ludek allowed, when he'd finished drinking his share.

  Kendrick took the canteen from Veronica, tipped it high, drained it in a single long gurgling swallow.

  "Then again," Ludek said, "maybe that dust cloud heading our way yonder will mean something as far as the fate of our old bones."

  Kendrick snapped the canteen down and swung his eyes to follow the line of Ludek's gaze. His first thought—his hope, really—was that the man was making some kind of twisted joke. But no, it was there alright ... to the south, back the way they had come, a pale yellow smudge on the landscape at the base of the ridge that seemed to pulse and tumble perpetually inward on itself as it moved steadily toward them.

  Veronica drew a sharp intake of breath. "What is it?" she said, afraid she knew the answer but wanting to be wrong.

  "Riders coming," Kendrick answered tersely.

  "Indians?"

  "If it was Apaches, we wouldn't be seeing their dust so plain."

  "Who then? The cavalry?"

  "Don't seem likely," Ludek said. "Not way the hell out here. How many you figure, Kendrick?"

  "Six, maybe eight. Ten at most. Riding steady, but not flat out."

  Ludek nodded. "Like they know they're closing in on something ahead of them—namely us—and don't figure they have to push too hard to get it done."

  "Then let's ride away from them!" Veronica urged.

  Kendrick shook his head. "Be useless. Strong as they're coming and as tuckered as our horses are, they'd be on us in no time anyway. Best put our backs to these rocks and stand to face them ... find out who they are, what they want."

  Ludek made a face. "Out here in this godforsaken place, you know damn well they ain't nobody just happening by to good news us." He looked at Kendrick. "I don't suppose you'd take my word like before, set me loose to back you with my guns?"

  "You suppose right."

  "Damn you, you're going to wish—"

  Kendrick cut him off. "The only thing I wish, as usual, is that you'd shut the hell up. Now find yourself a place in those rocks and stay out of the way."

  They led the horses into one of the broken sections of the ridge, where three fingerlike spires of sandstone rock had toppled years or decades ago to lay like ragged low walls across the piled sand. Kendrick took up a position behind the first of these rough barricades, Winchester at the ready, Colt loosened in its holster, and even the Greener pulled from its saddle lash to lean close beside his leg. Veronica placed herself a ways behind him and slightly to his right, somewhat closer to the broken base of the spires, her own fully loaded Winchester in hand. A sullen Ludek waited back near the horses.

  The dust cloud, which had seemed to be advancing so alarmingly when they first spotted it, now seemed crawl the remaining distance as they waited. Eventually, the shapes of the individual riders and horses could be made out. There were nine of them; neither Apaches nor horse soldiers, but nine hard-looking men wearing weathered, unshaven faces set in grim expressions. The features of the lead rider were perhaps grimmest of all, a wiry, whip-thin individual clad in a blood red shirt with a nickel-plated Colt riding on each hip, throwing menacing glints of sunlight even through the roiling dust.

  "Brade!" Ludek intoned with bitter recognition. "Damn the luck, anyway." He struggled with his restraints, rattling the chains. "You’ve got to let me out of these, Kendrick! It's me he's after, you've got to give me a chance to defend myself."

  Kendrick gave a firm shake of his head without bothering to look around. "It's not just you he's after. Not anymore, not after what happened to his men in that arroyo."

  "All the more reason then!" Ludek insisted.

  Veronica looked worried. "Maybe you should, Kendrick," she suggested.

  "No time now, even if I had a mind to," the bount
y hunter replied, his eyes never ceasing to sweep the approaching riders.

  Ludek's voice sounded panicky. "Then open up on them! Cut the bastards down cold like we done them Apaches. It'll be our only chance. Do it while they're bunched!"

  As if somehow hearing Ludek's demand, the riders fanned out as they slowed their horses. At a signal from Brade, they drew to a halt about twenty feet short of where Kendrick stood, sitting their saddles in a scattered semi-circle. For several clock ticks, the only sounds were the blowing of the horses and the faint gritty noises of the sand and dust settling.

  In those moments, Kendrick was surprised to recognize a second rider among the men spread before him. Astride a lathered buckskin off to Brade's left was unmistakably the fancy-shirted Mexican who had invaded Veronica's hotel room in Las Cruces. His mouth was curved faintly in a taunting smile and he was the only one of the nine whose eyes were not locked on Kendrick—his gaze aimed instead at Veronica. Allowing himself a brief glance over his shoulder, Kendrick saw Veronica glaring back at the man, trying for defiance but not completely masking the fear in her eyes.

  Brade nudged his horse forward a few paces. "I take it you'd be Bodie Kendrick," he said in a sandpapery voice.

  "I'll own up to that," Kendrick replied. "And you're Darrel Brade, right?"

  Brade cocked his head arrogantly. "You've heard of me, have you?"

  "Some."

  "Then I guess you know why I'm here. And, if you're smart, you know not to try and stand in the way of what I want."

  Kendrick grinned. "Then I guess I'm not so smart. Maybe the same goes for you. I already put one of your boys in the ground."

  "Two. Mort didn't make it, either."

  "His choice, not mine. Same for Tully."

  "That a fact? Way I heard tell, you let a woman do most of your fighting for you or you wouldn't've been able to do shit to my boys."

  "Everybody's entitled to their own version of a thing, I guess. In my book, though, any man who makes his fight against a woman is a hell of a lot less man than one who fights beside one."

  "In your book, eh?" Brade showed Kendrick a sneer, then turned his head and said to the Mexican in the fancy shirt, "You hear that, amigo? I think this hombre not only just spoke disrespect for my poor dead wranglers, but I think he also sort of insulted you and your business with the woman."

  The Mexican moved up abreast of Brade. "It sounds as if the heat of the puta's blonde beauty and the heat of the desert sun have combined to impair the man's better judgment. Sadly, it would be far from the first time she has caused such confusion."

  Veronica and the Mexican continued to exchange baleful glares.

  Kendrick shook his head. "You boys do all the hard riding you did, tracking us through Apache-infested desert, so's we could stand here making threatening noises and giving dirty looks?"

  "Actually," Brade said, "we got to thank the greaser here—"

  "I told you I despise that term!" the Mexican cut him off, eyes flashing angrily in his dark face.

  Brade smiled easily. "I'll try to do better about remembering. Anyway, it was Captain Huernadez here—he's a capitan in the Mexican army, in case you didn't know—who got us past the Apaches and through the desert. Helluva tracker, too. Fought his share of Apaches and learned his desert ways as a young officer down Sonora way. Mighty fortunate we ran into him outside Las Cruces after you'd sucker punched him in that hotel room. Didn't take us long to swap stories and see where we had a mutual interest. Also didn't take the captain long to figure out your little trick of doubling back and heading north by following the edge of the Jornada. When he saw the risk of where you were leading, he was as happy to have our extra guns as we was to have his skills. You ain't short on balls, bounty man, I'll give you that much."

  "Appears I'm a little short on judgment, though," Kendrick said. "When I saw the smoke and heard the sounds of that skirmish to the south of us yesterday, I figured whoever was involved in the fight would be tied up with their own trouble for a safe spell. I'm surprised you were able to get shed of the Apaches and track us this far so fast."

  "Might surprise you more to hear it wasn't us had any part in that skirmish." Brade grinned. "We started seeing Apache sign not long after we lost all track of you following that storm. We was doing our own fancy dodging and laying low, doing everything we could to avoid those red devils. When we saw the smoke and heard the shooting yesterday, we took the chance to hightail it. For awhile we figured it must've been you the Apaches got cornered, but then we stumbled on your fresh tracks and all of a sudden we was back in business again."

  "Who were the Apaches fighting, then?" Veronica said.

  Brade gave an elaborate shrug. "Who knows? Who cares? I guess you could say that's all behind us now."

  "We're baking here in this damnable sun, Brade," one of the nameless riders said. "Let's get on with what we been sent to do."

  Brade's expression went cold and his eyes narrowed dangerously for an instant in apparent reaction to being prodded by one of his own wranglers. But the speaker who caused this never saw it, because Brade never turned to acknowledge him in any way. Instead he abruptly shifted his attention to Ludek. "You here that, Jory-boy?" he called, an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. "Men out here anxious to get on with what we been sent to do ... you know by now what that is, don't you, Jory-boy?"

  "I got nothing to say to you, Brade," Ludek replied, his own voice tense.

  "Don't you now?" Brade grinned. "Don't matter. You'll speak for Mr. Grodine, I expect. I expect you'll squeal and beg and say just about anything you think he might want to here when he takes that hog-nuttin' knife of his to you." The grin faded and his expression went cold again. "Adele died, you miserable bastard ... Eighteen years old, and dead at her own hand because of the shame you brought on her."

  Ludek hung his head. "I'm sorry to hear that. I truly am ... I thought me getting away from there was the best thing I could do for both of us."

  "No, you ain't sorry," Brade said. "Not yet, you ain't. When your business is getting nailed to the front gate of the Circle G, that's when you'll only start being sorry."

  Huernadez, the Mexican, said, "This is not talk for in front of a woman, not even a thief and traitor such as this one. I think we have reached a parting of our ways, Senor Brade. We have served each other well. I will take the woman and leave now to attend to my business with her, you and your vaqueros have your own matters to see to."

  Brade scowled. "Hold on a minute there, El Capitan. I thought your business with the woman was to retrieve some papers she stole from you?"

  "Precisely."

  "Then have at your papers, amigo. Way I see it, that was our deal and I ain't fixing to renege on it. But the woman stays. I got my own business with her. She was in on the killing of two of my men, I don’t aim to let her just ride away from that."

  "Surely you are not implying you intend to put her to the gun!?" Huernadez looked incredulous.

  "She dealt herself in on the play and now her cards have come up short. She'll pay the same as any man."

  The Mexican's dark face took on a wine-hued flush. "That I will not stand for. No man of honor could."

  Brade's ice-chip eyes measured Huernadez. "Best think real careful about what you're saying, El Capitan. I got no quarrel with you, I might even be a bit beholden to you. But that don't mean I'll let you stand in the way of my doing what I have to do."

  Huernadez did not miss the way Brade had gone rigid in his stirrups, the way his hips had turned slightly and his hands had spread to hover each above a holstered gleaming Colt. The Mexican gave a faint shake of his head. "I am no pistolero, senor."

  "But I am," Brade said, smiling. "So that's what you're faced with. You choice is to either walk away from it, or deal with it."

  Huernadez licked his lips. "I have nothing but intense hatred for this woman. She betrayed me and my country, and the stolen papers she now carries with her—detailed information on the strength and d
eployment of Federal troops throughout northern Mexico—will be of great service to the rebel sympathizers she is trying to reach in Socorro. My military career will be effectively ruined if I am forced to reveal she gained their possession while being 'entertained' by me. Yet for all that ... I cannot turn my back and allow her to be gunned down like an animal in this godforsaken place."

  "Don't be a fool, Ricardo," Veronica said suddenly. "You haven't a chance against him."

  Huernadez smiled wistfully. "No, my treacherous beauty. It is you I never had a chance against."

  In truth, Huernadez went for his gun first. But so fast was Darrel Brade and so little leather did the tormented captain clear with his weapon that his effort amounted to nothing but a cruel joke. Brade's twin Colts leaped into his fists and both cracked twice, the reports echoing emptily across the dunes. Huernadez's body—struck all four times—somersaulted from its saddle and fell to the ground in a motionless heap.

  Veronica went to the fallen man; hesitantly at first, but then in rush, her Winchester left leaning against the broken lava. She dropped to her knees on the sand beside him.

  Kendrick watched impassively. As they had been throughout the exchange between Brade and Huernadez, the hard eyes of the remaining Circle G wranglers were trained steadily on him. He continued to hold his Winchester at the ready and his own eyes kept moving in a vigilant sweep, touching on the display of compassion being shown by Veronica as briefly yet thoroughly as all else.

  Brade holstered his Colts with a flourish, their nickel-plated barrels flashing brilliantly in the sun. "Can you beat that?" he said to nobody in particular. "Damn fool went and got himself killed over a lying, thieving woman who’d done him nothing but dirt."

  Veronica looked up, brushing a spill of hair away from her face. The glint of a tear showed at the corner of one eye. "This man had honor and dignity," she said to Brade. "That's something you'll never be able to understand, you bastard."