Deuces Wild

by Dusty Richards

  For the most part, the passengers were asleep. From his appraisal, none of the men in their car seemed brave enough to assist Egan if he got into trouble. Most had stared at Deuces, and one man even gave a shudder of his shoulders when he asked Egan, “That one’s a killer?”

  “Big time.Why, he cut off a man’s thing and stuffed it in his mouth and choked him to death on it,” Egan said, throwing his arms up on the back of his bench as if he had no fear.

  The ashen-faced man nodded, shaken by the words. He quickly moved on.

  When the time at last came for Deuces to make his move, he would need much help from the mountain spirits to escape this man—still, he must do it!

  “Mmm!” Deuces said, and held both hands over his mouth, kicking the dozing Egan in the shin. Apprehension twisted his guts over what would happen next, but the time for him to escape was now or never.

  “Huh—what’s wrong—my gawd, you’re sick. Don’t puke here.” Egan fumbled with the keys, undoing the chain. “Come on. Come on.” He dragged Deuces by the collar toward the platform as the Apache pretended to gag and acted ready to throw up.

  “Get out there,” Egan said, and shoved him through the doorway onto the deck between two cars. Headed full speed toward Uvalde, the train rocked back and forth.

  Ready like a cat coiled to spring, Deuces shifted his weight and with all his force drove his elbow hard into the lawman’s gut. The move pinned Egan, half bent over, against the door facing. An agonizing groan issued from the deputy’s mouth.With the marshal incapacitated for a second, Deuces shoved his manacled hands inside Egan’s coat and drew the pearl-handled Colt from his shoulder holster. Backing away on the swaying deck, Deuces cocked the hammer. In the half-light of the rocking platform, he could read the new fear in Egan’s eyes. The revolver in his right hand, Deuces caught the iron railing with the other cuffed one for his balance and leaned out to look quickly into the direction the train was speeding through the night.

  “Don’t try it!” Egan shouted. “You won’t survive the fall.”

  “Maybe I won’t survive the rock place, either,” he said smugly, and threw himself off the stairs backward.

  He hit the ground hard and rolled. The end-over-end bruising roll never wanted to stop, until, at last, full of thorns and goat heads in his skin and face, he scampered to his knees and watched the red lantern swinging on the fast-disappearing last car. His breath came hard. The full realization of his freedom swept him despite the soreness and the stickers.

  When he started to rise, several orange flashes came from someone shooting at him from the train. His head still dizzy from the fall, he knew he could not waste any more time at this place. Since nothing felt broken, he slid the Colt into his waistband and stared hard at the cuffs. They would hinder him from doing many things he might need to do to stay free.With no time to waste or worry about the bracelets, he climbed the tracks, crossed them, and looked at the dark sky to set his way by the North Star.

  White men would use dogs to track him. He must find some black or red pepper to stop their noses. For the moment, he needed to get as far away from those twin iron rails as he could; they would think he would use them to find his way back toward his home. In a long gait, he soon found a dusty road barely visible under the stars and set out. Dogs barked at him from farmsteads he passed, but he ignored them. The curs stayed close to the dark outlines of shacks, not coming out to the road as he ran past their driveways. His mission for the moment was to get as many miles away from there as he could.

  His breathing came easy, and his legs felt strong.

  They would carry him a long way. After a mile or so, he slipped up on a dark house with no dogs. His footsteps silent, he crept close enough to hear the snores of the residents. The boards in the porch made soft creaks under his Apache boot soles which only he could hear as he slipped inside the room. He drew a deep breath up his nose—white man’s sweat and the sourness of piss in a jar filled the air. Then his hand closed around a square box on the table. The sharpness of a small whiff up his nose was enough. His heartbeat quickened with the box of ground black pepper in his grasp. Horn once told him that pepper spread on his tracks would stop any trailing hounds.

  Tiptoeing, he eased back and out the door, grateful the occupants kept no barking watchdog. Soon he resumed his run up the road, scattering pepper in his wake. He dared to use the most direct route only until daylight, for the fields beside him were either shoulder-tall with corn stalks or half-knee-high cotton plants. Closer to dawn, he would need to find cover. He doubled his speed. How long would it take Egan to get a search party and come back to chase him?

  The longer, the better, he knew, as his soles slapped the still hot dirt, and he ran even harder. The revolver in his waistband was good fortune, but he could never hold off an army with only a handgun. He’d forgotten about them; the army might come and search for him, too. Everyone would be looking for Deuces. He breathed deep and even. They would have to find him first, and that gave a burst of speed to his running.

  Morning found him in a copse of cottonwoods and live oaks along a small stream. Seated on the ground, he ate some raw, green corn from the cob taken in his flight. From his vantage point, he could see any activity on the road. He had to hope the pepper he spread on his back trail the night before would deny them any more use of their bloodhounds.

  With darkness, he would head north again, perhaps steal a horse. But people might recognize a horse—he would not steal one for a while. If they thought he was headed toward the setting sun, good. He would go farther north, then go west. No rush, but he felt saddened by the knowledge that he could never go back to San Carlos or Fort Apache, marry an Indian woman, and make kids. Always he would be a fugitive, a loner, cut off from the rest of his people.

  He looked at the sun creasing the eastern sky. Should he pray to his god, Ussen, or the padres’ god, the one with a cross and holy water to sprinkle on him, for help to get out of this land of farmers? He could never be an Apache again—never be a white man, either. He would need to find his own god. One for a man without people. The notion saddened him, but he wanted to sleep some, and then he must awaken and be aware for when Egan gave him chase.

  They would come. He would be ready to avoid them. His enemies would be many. He held his hands up and looked at the chain that bound his wrists. Next, he must find a file to get them apart and then the bracelets cut off his wrists.

  In the distance, a rooster crowed, and he nodded in approval. A small smile parted his lips; a chicken had set him free. The sounds of such birds must be a good omen for him.

  Chapter 5

  IN THE SHED, BURT USED A MILL FILE TO SHARPEN the section on the sickle bar. The low-roofed blacksmith shop was oven-hot. Streams of perspiration ran down his face as he labored. With interest, Juan watched him make passes with the file that left the finished sickle section with a new edge. Earlier, they had replaced the lost and loose rivets in the four-foot mower bar, and he had shown the man how to set and replace them. Juan proved to be a quick learner. Burt felt certain he would soon make a whiz of a hay machine mechanic out of this quiet youth.

  How long ago since he had used a mower? He tried to recall. Years, perhaps. That was the main reason he didn’t return to the family farm after his enlistment in the Union Army was over. Hot, hard, brainless work like this sharpening made up the days of all farmers. If it wasn’t broken, it still needed repair before busting into two. Of course, new contraptions like this mowing machine saved hundreds of hours of backbreaking sickle-swinging work.

  “You see?” he asked Juan, showing the man how to make the stroke by holding the file in both hands.

  “Sí.”

  “Good. You try it.”

  Juan used his hands to show the angle and then shrugged.

  “That’s it. Go the same way as the old one.” Burt used one hand over the other to demonstrate.

  Satisfied, Juan began to file across the section with Burt bent over close to watch h
is work. Nodding in approval, he clapped the man on the shoulder. “That’s how you do it.”

  Mopping his wet face on his kerchief, Burt blinked his sweat-stinging eyes. From there on, it would be the farm man’s job to sharpen the sections. He went to the open doorway of the shed where a welcome hot wind swept his face. With a glance back, he felt satisfied the sharpening was being taken care of. He lifted his business suit coat from the nail on the door and headed for the house.

  On the porch, he stopped and studied the gathering tall clouds coming in from the southwest. Probably rain again in a few hours. The monsoon season had begun. Precipitation anytime in the desert was a blessing. Even moisture falling up on the mountains was welcome.

  “Did you teach him how?” Angela asked, coming out the front door.

  “Yes. He learns fast.”

  She moved in front of him, took off his felt hat, and with a cloth blotted the beads on his forehead. “You’ve been sweating.”

  “Hot out there.”

  “Come in. I have some cool sun tea with fresh squeezed lemons and sugar to mix in.”

  “No ice?” he asked.

  “No ice,” she said. She stood on her toes and kissed his mouth. “You know ice in southern Arizona is rare even in winter. Besides, where would I even keep it?”

  “They have it in Preskitt,” he teased her.

  “They have many things in Preskitt. Do you know that famous Madam Deveau up there?” she asked as he went past her to wash up and perhaps cool down some.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “She’s very famous. I’ve heard that she knows all the legislators by their first names. Has a very large man-sion.”

  “I’ve seen her place when I was up there.”

  “Oh, men—” she said, and went off in a huff to fix their drinks.

  “Oh, men, what?” he called out from behind the wet wash cloth, scrubbing his face.

  “Honestly,” she said, returning with a tray and two tall glasses full of a brownish tea, lemons, and a sugar bowl on it.

  “I’ll be there in a minute.What is this business? I had no desire to go traipse over to some house of ill repute stocked with teenage girls.” He paused as he dried his face to look hard at her over what he considered an unjust accusation.

  She began to smile. “I was only teasing you.”

  “Good,” he said, and hung the towel on a hook. “I find your company much more pleasurable than some silly young girl anytime.”

  She set the tray down and stared reflectively at it for a minute before she turned to look at him. “You really mean that, don’t you, Burton?”

  “Bet your life I do.”

  Glass in her hand, she stalked over to him. “Good. I shall never mention that place again in jest or serious-ness.”

  He took his glass of tea and nodded thanks to her. “That would be an excellent concession.”

  She frowned and hurried to the doorway to look at the dust boiling up from the road. “Burton, there’s a rider coming hard down the road.”

  He joined her. Whoever it was, he was fast using up his horse. The rider was yelling and lashing at his pony when he came up the lane to the house.

  “Burt Green?” he shouted, dismounting on the fly and crossing the yard on the run.

  “Yes?”

  The red-faced youth, out of breath, delivered a telegram on flimsy yellow paper. “It’s from the governor.” He gulped.

  “To Burton Green—effective today, you have been appointed as a Special U.S. Marshal by order of the President of the United States—find and hire an Apache scout for a tracker—a former Apache scout—a prisoner called Deuces has escaped a U. S. Deputy Marshal—go to Uvalde, Texas, at once—and lend all your expertise and assistance to the local authorities—Judge Amos will swear you in—Governor Martin Baylor.”

  “You know about this?” Burt asked the red-faced youth.

  “Yeah, it’s the big news. That killer Deuces has escaped the deputy marshal who was taking him to prison and jumped off the train down there in Texas. They figure he’ll kill a lot of folks if they don’t catch him real quick, won’t he, sir?”

  “I don’t know.Who all did this Deuces kill?”

  “Some Apache scout called Sombrero. He—” The boy went silent.

  Burt turned and nodded to Angela, who came out onto the porch with a dipper of water for the boy.

  “Something wrong?” she asked with a frown.

  “Yes, I have been made a special U.S. marshal by presidential order. Some Apache scout being sent to prison has escaped, and the governor wants me to go to Texas and assist them in finding him.” He shook his head, considering the wire in his hand, still shocked by his own appointment. Without some strong political connections, the position of U.S. marshal was near to impossible to achieve. “And I need to find me a tracker and deputize him.”

  “Deputize an Indian?” Angela made a face of disbe-lief.

  “Yes. Give him a U.S. deputy marshal’s position, no doubt.”

  “You have a reply, sir?” the youth asked.

  “Yes. Tell the governor I will be on my way to Texas shortly.”

  “Sign it Burton Green, sir?”

  “Yes—and young man, don’t kill that poor horse going back. He’s awfully hot.”

  “Oh, I won’t.”

  “Good,” he said after him.

  “You’re a U.S. marshal now?” she said in a teasing voice. “My, you’ve sure moved up quick enough.”

  “You mean, about time. I suspect they wanted someone with authority in Texas for this search.” The revelation of his new position had only begun to become a reality in his mind. Why special? He’d never heard of that before. He guessed that Judge Amos would be the man to hold the answers to his questions.

  “Will this Apache tracker you hire even ride on a train?” Her raised eyebrows further questioned him as she crossed the porch to stand beside him.

  He smiled at her as she clung to his arm. “Just going to have to see.”

  “What about Torres?”

  “You’ll have armed guards here the entire time I’m gone. Both Pedro and Obregón will be here.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Don’t worry, I know Pedro. These men are tough fighters and will guard this place like their own.”

  “And the stage robber, Taylor?”

  “He’ll have to go free a while longer. The governor wants me on this Deuces business.”

  “What happens next?”

  “Hook up a buckboard, and we go back to Tucson.”

  “We may wear out the dirt in the road going back and forth to there,” she said, and laughed softly. “Burton, we better pack you a bag.” Still holding his right arm with both hands, she steered him for the front door. “I’d almost swear some power to be doesn’t want us close together for very long at one time.”

  “You could think lots of things. This Deuces must be some kind of a devil to have the governor that upset.” He glanced at the ceiling of sticks under the mud roof. It still needed to be repaired. Hay to cut. And him off to Texas. Perhaps they would have this one caught before he could get out of Tucson. One Indian in a strange land—how hard could that be to take care of?

  “Can you even find a good tracker?” she asked, folding a shirt to put in his valise on the bed.

  “There’s many out of work. Several ex-army scouts who once worked for General Crook are hanging around Tucson.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. Then, as if in discovery, she posed with a look of knowing something. “I read about that Apache’s trial. If he’s the same one, some scout named Tom Horn came back from Mexico to testify in his behalf. This Deuces murdered another Apache scout because he cut the nose off his Apache squaw.”

  “Sane men have done that,” Burt said, and handed her another shirt to fold. That was not a sure sign this Deuces was bloodthirsty. He went and took some underwear and socks out of the dresser drawer. Be a lot nicer to stay there with her than to go galley-flitting off t
o the Lone Star State—but duty called. At least, one good thing had happened; he had the full rank of a U.S. marshal. With this position came a steady monthly salary and eventual retirement—if he lived that long. No more serving warrants for a fee and making arrests for two dollars plus mileage.

  Within an hour, the buckskins were hitched. Angela agreed to stay at her house in town until he returned or Pedro and Obregón were on hand to protect her at the ranch. Before they left, Burt told Juan to be careful mowing the alfalfa, as there would be more help coming.

  He waited for Angela to kiss and hug the small children goodbye, then he helped her onto the spring seat. A last look around the place before he swung up and undid the reins.Work undone about the ranch was on his conscience and upset him, but the projects would have to hold until the matter of the escapee was settled.

  The bright sun glinted off the quartz rocks on the sides of the Catalinas like diamonds. A strong creosote smell of the greasewood carried on the hot, stiff breeze. Somewhere off toward Mexico, a cloud bank grew taller. Monsoon moisture was coming up to wet the desert. Hard to tell if it would only be mare’s tails of moisture that never reached the ground or an icy afternoon thundershower that deluged the fiery hot soil. The ovenlike wind in his face, he drove the trotting team and wondered where he would find a tracker.

  The ex-scout he had in mind worked for him before, when they tracked down a white man who’d stolen five army mules. One-Eye Dick was his name.Was the half-blind Apache still loitering around Tucson? One never knew about the likes of them. He clucked to the team pulling the long grade.

  “I’ve wondered about something,” he said to her. “You and Van Dorn never had any children, did you?” At last, he pulled the sweating team down to a walk on the mesa top so they could catch their breath.

  “Frederick and I wanted them, but it never hap-pened.” She shrugged and dropped her gaze to her lap. “Two miscarriages—”

  When she grew silent, he glanced over at her. “I wasn’t prying.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t ever carry a child.”