The Long-Knives 5

by Patrick E. Andrews

  It was now early evening, and it seemed the many hours spent on the trail had been for nothing. Wildon looked around at the mountains to the south. A feeling of utter hopelessness swept over him.

  “There are at least a thousand different routes to the summits. And we don’t know which one holds our quarry.” He angrily hit the saddle horn with his fist. “It seems so impossible now. Look at the vastness of this place. My God! It is endless.”

  “There’s an advantage to that. We can see a hell of a long way in country like this. I’ll admit it will take time, sir,” Garrity said. “But we’ll pull it off.” Wildon sighed. “I just hope we do have time.”

  “Those outlaws might not have even gone that way,” Garrity said. “They could have turned off east and headed for Chihuahua. But we can find them there too.”

  Wildon felt helpless in spite of the sergeant’s optimism. “Is there any chance they might have gone west?”

  “I doubt it,” Garrity said. “There’s not too many places to hole up out in the desert. And the Yaqui Injuns own that particular piece of the earth. Nobody, not even a bandit gang, would want to tangle with that tribe.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We could waste a lot of time going the wrong way,” Garrity said. “It might be a good idea to hunt up another settlement and do some inquiring.”

  “I’ll mind my manners this time,” Wildon said. “God! It makes me sick to think of how I spoiled our visit in that cantina. We might have learned something.”

  “Maybe not,” Garrity said, getting up into his saddle. “Let’s not fret over that. The best course of action would be to act like we’re looking for employment. A border gang can always use another coupla guns.”

  “Then we shall play the role of desperados, hey?”

  “That’s it, sir,” Garrity said. “But don’t try to pass yourself off as a man who’s been out here a long time.”

  Wildon smiled. “I’m still quite the Easterner, aren’t I?”

  “Sir, you sure as hell are,” Garrity said. “But we can say you were in trouble with the law back there and ended up on the Mexican border. Let’s pretend we joined up together a while back and have had some bad luck.”

  “I understand.”

  The two cavalrymen changed direction and rode out of the foothills. The horses seemed to appreciate the easier terrain, and they picked up a bit of speed without being goaded into it. It took an hour to reach the flatlands again. Garrity led them to the southeast, riding easily, still looking for the bandit trail in case they might stumble across something. But the ground stayed barren of telltale sign. After another half-hour, Wildon called out.

  “Sergeant! Look to the horizon on our left.”

  Garrity looked in that direction. At first he saw nothing, but finally he caught sight of a wisp of smoke carried upward and whipped away. “Nice job, sir. Let’s go over that way and see what’s going on.”

  Soon after they settled in for the ride, the horses again picked up speed. Garrity knew the reason. “They smell fresh water.”

  Giving the animals their own lead, the two cavalrymen settled in for the ride. A few minutes later they could see the settlement nestled on the banks of a narrow river. The sergeant knew exactly what lay ahead. “There’s some adobe huts and fields,” he said. “We won’t find a cantina there, but maybe the folks will help us get back on the right track.”

  Their welcome into the village was not particularly warm. The men were outside the huts. Garrity knew the women and children would be inside. These were people that had experienced bad treatment from strangers in the past. He chose a middle-aged man who seemed to be the leader. Garrity nodded.

  “Buenos noches, senor.”

  The man, unsmiling, answered with a nod.

  “We are looking for hombres bandidos,” Garrity said in a mixture of Spanish and English. “Maybe doce or trece of them. There is a mujer americana with them.”

  “I don’t see no bandidos” the Mexican said. “I don’t see no gringa neither.”

  Garrity pointed to the mountains. “They live in las montahas someplace. Do you know where?”

  “No, senor.”

  Wildon looked at the man. “You must help us, sir!”

  The man shrugged. “Por que? If you want the bandidos, look for them.”

  “We are, senor” Garrity said. He knew the bandits were feared and hated by the villagers. It seemed that veracity was the best course. “The mujer americana is my friend’s wife.”

  “The bandidos take a lot of men’s wives,” the Mexican said. “That is nothing new.”

  “Cobardes!” The shrill cry of the woman’s voice broke into the scene.

  Wildon and Garrity looked over to see a young woman step from one of the huts. She looked at the men and spat. Then she walked over to Wildon.

  “I speak English. I work in the house of Americans in San Antonio for two years.”

  “I hope you can help us,” Wildon said.

  “I hear you say the bad men take your wife,” the woman said. “It is true what Clemente say about they take lots of wives.” She glared at the Mexican, then turned back to the young officer. “But at least you go to get yours back. You do not act like she has been soiled and is too unclean for you.” Wildon didn’t like the way the conversation was going. “I’d rather not—”

  She interrupted him. “The men you look for are led by an evil one called Humberto Movo.” She pointed. “Look to the south. See the highest mountain with the flat top? That is where they live. It is the part of the range called the Santo Domingos. The mountain you seek is Montana Bandido— Bandit Mountain.”

  The one she pointed out was easy to see. Tall and craggy, the apex seemed flattened as if some giant’s hand had pressed down on it.

  “Thank you very much,” Wildon said.

  “Movo and his devils only come out to kill and rob,” the woman said. “My own dear sister died of their outrages.” She turned and sneered at the village spokesman. “And this one abandoned his wife of five years because she was raped.”

  The man stepped forward, tears in his eyes, and hit the young woman so hard that she fell to the ground. “Collate!” he bellowed at her. “Sangrona de tu madre!”

  Wildon was angered by the man’s action. “Don’t do that again, sir. I warn you!”

  The Mexican looked at the Americans. “What is a man to do? Did it not tear out my heart to have her taken by other men?” He glared at Wildon. “What are you going to do, senor? Dime—tell me! What are you going to do?”

  “Let’s go, Sergeant,” Wildon said. He pulled on his horse’s reins and kicked the animal into a gallop. As they rode back into the desert, the Mexican woman’s voice sounded above their mounts’ hooves.

  “I will pray for help from all the saints to guide you. Vaya con Dios—Go with God!”

  Wildon and Garrity had ridden until darkness forced them to stop. Sullen and sad, the lieutenant had not eaten the night before. Garrity, sympathizing with him, knew there was nothing he could say. Their camp that night was a quiet somber bivouac.

  The next morning, up in the dawn’s penetrating chill, they took time only for some hot coffee. After quickly downing the brew, they pulled themselves up into their saddles for a long day of riding.

  “We’ll make better time today,” the sergeant said. “We won’t be following any trails.”

  Wildon, anxious to get on with the task, looked far across the flat terrain to the smudge of mountains in the distance. “How long do you figure it will be before we reach the Santo Domingos?” Garrity, the old soldier, judged the distance with an instinct born of years of active campaigning. “Just a bit before dark.”

  “Damn!” Wildon said. “I was hoping we could get there with enough time to get something accomplished.”

  “We’ll be arriving at the right time, Lieutenant,” Garrity assured him. “We’ll be able to settle in, then maybe do a little scouting before dark. We can spend tomorrow giving the pl
ace a good look-over.”

  “The whole day? I would certainly like to have my wife out of there as quickly as possible.”

  “First we got to find out exactly where she is, sir,” Garrity said. “If we can find a way to observe for a while, we might just be able to spot her.”

  Wildon appreciated the older man’s wisdom. “Thank you, Sergeant. Let’s ride.”

  They traveled through the entire morning. The only rests the horses got were when the two men dismounted and led them. Normal horses might have become dangerously fatigued, but the oat-fed, well-conditioned mounts of the United States Cavalry responded to the good treatment they had received with stamina, strength, and a willingness to obey.

  Finally, however, in early afternoon, the soldiers called a halt. Even healthy animals have limits. Especially if great demands might be put on them in the near future.

  Removing the saddles, they allowed the animals a brief rest. Curry brushes came out of the saddlebags and a good brushing down aided in restoring some vitality. After an hour, the equipment was thrown aboard once more, and the trek resumed.

  Wildon was gratified to see that the shadowy images of the Santo Domingos had begun to show some clarity. Cuts and ravines in the sides of the mountains was evident as were other features. Garrity on the other hand, had something else catch his attention.

  “There’s a man ahead, sir,” Garrity said, pulling his field glasses from their case wrapped around the saddle horn. “He’s on foot and leading a horse.” By then Wildon had his own binoculars up to his eyes. “The animal is lame.” He studied the man for a few moments. “By golly! I think the fellow is one of the bandits!”

  “You’re right about that, sir.”

  “Then let’s ride up there and grab the rascal, Sergeant!”

  “Hold up, Lieutenant,” Garrity cautioned him. He gave the surrounding area a good scrutiny. “There doesn’t seem to be any of his pards nearby. They probably left him to get back on his own.” He looked at the lieutenant. “Let’s make a quiet approach.”

  “Right.”

  They increased the pace without forcing the mounts into a gallop. It took three quarters of an hour to get close enough to use the naked eye to be able to tell what sort of clothing the bandit wore. “Hold up, sir,” Garrity said, reining in.

  Curious, Wildon glanced over at the sergeant and brought his own mount to a stop.

  Garrity calmly pulled the Henry rifle from the saddle boot. He aimed carefully, then gently squeezed the trigger. The rifle recoiled backward into his shoulder.

  “Nice shooting, Sergeant!” Wildon exclaimed. Up ahead, the bandit looked down at the horse that lay dead at his feet. He quickly glanced back and saw the two Americans who were now riding hell-for-leather toward him. Panic-stricken, the man ran toward the mountains. Garrity, in the lead, bore down on him. When he caught up, the sergeant slapped the man on the back of the head and sent him tumbling. He brought his horse to a halt, leaping off and rushing up to the fallen bandit.

  Garrity reached the man who had now gotten up on his knees. He hit the desperado straight in the face, knocking him onto his back.

  Wildon now joined them. He also swung out of the saddle, but wisely left the formalities to the N.C.O.

  The bandit sat up, rubbing his jaw. “Hey! You’re no amigable, eh?”

  “Damned right I ain’t,” Garrity said. “Get up.” The bandit shook his head. “No. You only want to hit me again.”

  Garrity brandished the rifle. “Get up or I’m gonna lay this rifle across your skull.”

  “Espera!” the bandit asked. He got to his feet, cringing as he expected another blow. When nothing happened, he relaxed. “What you want, eh? I ain’t got no money.”

  “I want to know where you’re taking the American girl,” Garrity said.

  “I don’t know nothing about no ’merican muchacha the bandit insisted.

  Garrity exploded into action, crashing the barrel of the Henry against the man’s arm. He looked down on the now fallen man. “Tell me about her.”

  “I don’t know nothing.” The second blow rolled him over. “Goddamn! Calmate!”

  “I’ll damned well beat you to death,” Garrity said. “I know you’re from Movo’s gang.”

  The bandit held his arm that was obviously broken. “Don’t hit me no more, man. I tell you right out. I am one of Mauveaux’s men.”

  Wildon, without realizing it himself, suddenly moved. He kicked the bandit in the midsection while pulling his hunting knife from its scabbard. He bent down and held the blade to the man’s throat. “The American woman is my wife.”

  The bandit swallowed. “I guess you want her back, eh?”

  “Tell me where to find her or I’ll cut your goddamned throat,” Wildon said coolly.

  “She was grabbed by Mauveaux,” the bandit said. “He rode up to her and picked her up. She tried to get away once, but he caught her. I ain’t seen the ’merican muchacha since my horse went lame.”

  “Tell me the exact location of the bandit camp,” Wildon said.

  The bandit pointed over his shoulder. “You can see the mountain with the flat top? That is where it is.”

  Wildon increased the pressure of the knife. “Tell me exactly where it is situated.”

  “On the top, the whole top,” the bandit said. “That’s exactamente where. Easy with el cuchillo— the knife.”

  Wildon pushed the man away and stood up. “That’s what the girl back in the farming village said.”

  “That’s about all we can learn from this sonofabitch,” Garrity said. He put the Henry to his shoulder and aimed at the bandit.

  “Oh, shit!” the bandit said, crossing himself.

  “What the hell are you going to do, Sergeant?” Wildon demanded to know.

  “I’m going to shoot this feller,” Garrity said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “No! I won’t have cold-blooded murder,” Wildon insisted.

  “Sir!” Garrity protested.

  “That’s an order, Sergeant.”

  “Sir, he’s gonna pop up later to haunt us,” Wildon said. “He’s a goddamned devil. The world is better without him.”

  The bandit looked at Wildon. “Don’t let him kill me!”

  “Leave him be,” Wildon said. “He’ll be alone and on foot in the wild country.”

  “Lieutenant, that bastard could walk through hell and back again if he had to,” Garrity pointed out.

  “Let’s go, Sergeant.” Wildon walked over and stepped up into his saddle.

  Shaking his head, Garrity walked over to his mount.

  Twelve

  Garrity looked back at Wildon and pointed to the ground. “Here’s the trail we lost, sir. It’s popped up again in this softer ground.”

  Wildon glanced downward, recognizing the marks they had spend so much time trailing but had lost when the terrain turned rockier. They led straight to a path that ascended into the boulders above. The military side of his mind spoke out.

  “I would imagine that track is well guarded,” he said. “It certainly would be if I were charged with its defense.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garrity said. “The bandits will have a series of guard posts all the way up there to the entrance of their camp. It’s something they picked up from Injuns. The only difference is that picket duty is voluntary in the tribes. I’d be willing to bet the bandit leader makes sure this place is secured proper.” He indicated another area that offered a way to the top. This was trackless country, strewn with boulders. “It’ll take longer, but it’s a guarantee we’ll at least make it.”

  “Isn’t there a chance of patrols?” Wildon asked. Garrity nodded. “There sure is, sir, and we’d better be ready for them.” He loosened the pistol in his holster. “Ready to go?”

  Wildon followed his example, but also pulled his Winchester up a couple of inches. “I’ll be using this if we have an unexpected meeting.”

  “Good idea, sir,” Garrity said. “But it’ll take both hands on the reins t
o handle these animals. That’s pretty steep terrain there.” He urged his horse forward and, with Wildon close behind, began the slow ascent.

  The mountain side offered more problems other than its steep angle. Large boulders, some piled on top of others, were packed close together. On several occasions, the two riders were forced to back down or turn around when what promised to be a good avenue to the top turned out to be a dead end.

  The horses, good military mounts, did as well as possible as their hooves clattered over the rocky ground. They snorted and strained, doing the duty required of them. Finally Wildon and Garrity, both dedicated horsemen and cavalry soldiers, put the condition of their animals ahead of everything else.

  “If we don’t give ’em a breather, they’ll bust their hearts,” Garrity said.

  Wildon leaned forward a bit and patted his horse on the neck. “These fine fellows deserve some consideration.”

  They dismounted and led the steeds by the reins, taking away most of the physical strain for the noble beasts.

  Several times, Garrity left his horse with Wildon and went ahead on foot to check out a potential pathway. If it was a good one, he came back and got his horse to continue the climb. If not, he tried other approaches until he found one that would take them higher toward the objective.

  Three hours of the strenuous work was exhausting. Soaked in sweat and breathing hard from the exertion, Wildon and Garrity had to rest. But it would have been foolhardy to relax in the open. After a half-hour of searching, they found some cover back in a small tree-filled ravine. The cavalrymen wanted only to sit down and let their fatigue-cramped muscles relax. Once they were inside the small grove of trees, they found something else—a stream of cool water.

  Trickling down from above, the little creek was not more than a foot wide. They first saw to it that their faithful mounts got all of the refreshing liquid they wanted. After the horses had slaked their thirst, the two soldiers thought of their own physical comfort. Garrity stuck his face in the water and drank long and deep.