He grinned. “Find a soft place for your back. You will lie on it for a long time and look at the sky.”
“They say around the campfires of women that men rape because they are such poor lovers. That is why they do it. Because such women never complain.”
“You won’t complain,” he promised her, and turned on his heel. She wasn’t the German girl, but she would do. Besides, he needed to stay in the Sierra Madres for a while—too many looked for him above the border.
Chapter 22
“THE GOVERNOR OF SONORA HAS SENT YOU A LETTER ?” Angela said, excited, looking through the mail Pedro brought from Tucson.
“That may be the answer I’ve been waiting for,” Burt said.
“About him allowing you to go into Mexico and bring out Torres and Taylor?”
“Could be,” Burt said, looking over the linen envelope and official wax seal on the back. He opened it and pulled out the paper.
Señor Green:
In regards to your request to arrest two citizens of Mexico, Alfredo Torres and Joseph Taylor. My captain of the rurales, Captain Austin Malago, says the bandit Alfredo Torres is wanted for many crimes in Mexico. But if you think you can locate him, we will allow you the pleasure of trying him in the United States.
However, in the case of Señor Taylor, who is a land owner and a bishop in the Church of Jesus Christ, that is different. Only if Señor Taylor is willing to surrender and go with you willingly can you take him back to your country for trial.
I know you are sworn to uphold the law in your own country, but we cannot allow armed parties of invasionary forces through our borders. So you may not bring a posse to Mexico to secure this Torres.You and only two of your deputies are all I will allow in my state, and you will have only ten days from when you come through the custom gates to arrest him and get out.
Our country also has strong laws about murder. We expect you to arrest this man and not execute him on the spot. Anything else will make you and your men subject to the penal codes of Mexico and Sonora.
Please respond with your wishes.
Sincerely yours,
Martinez Pasco, Govenor of Sonora, Republic of Mexico
“What does it say?”
He handed her the letter. “It says we can go down there and get Torres because he’s an outlaw. But we can’t have Taylor unless he surrenders. Because he’s a preacher of Mormons and has money. Lots of gold money from the stage robbery of the Fort Grant army paymaster.”
“What will you do?”
“Take Pedro and One-Eye and go get Torres. All of Torres’s men are bound over for trial for murder and robbery. He’s the only one left, as far as I can tell. He might have a new gang of thugs down there, but we’ll get him and drag him back. I’m certain that he was involved in the murder of Carla, and I want to see him pay for it.”
“You aren’t telling me everything,” she said, swinging on his arm.
“I also believe he’s the one who killed your husband.”
She nodded and handed him back the letter. “Then you better answer the governor of Sonora’s letter, Marshal Green.”
Preparation began with shoeing the horses they’d ride. Pedro, recovered from his wound, rode out to find One Eye and bring him back to the ranch for the job. Burt was bent over, tacking on a shoe with a roan horse’s hind hoof in his hand, when a man in a military officer’s uniform rode up.
“Marshal Green?” he asked as he dismounted.
Burt’s mouth full of horseshoe nails, he nodded. Setting the first one, he rapped the flat nail in place and then bent it over.
“Sorry to catch you at work, sir, but I’m Captain Hampton from the San Carlos post.”
Burt nodded for him to continue.
“You no doubt have heard about all of the rapes and abductions of women by the renegade called Deuces?”
Burt nodded, used another nail, and bent over his work, rapping it in with the short-handled hammer. This was no place to quit, despite his company.
“Well, sir, we are considering him as a hostile. Under that heading, the army can pursue him into Mexico.”
Burt took another nail out of his mouth, drove it in, bent it over on the top side, and let go of the roan’s hoof. He cleared the rest of them from his mouth and sucked in a breath of air as he straightened.
“Captain, If you had a thousand good Apache scouts and went in there looking for him, I’d bet you a good-sized farm you’ll never find him.”
“He’s not a ghost.”
“Hell, man, you could find four or five ghosts easier than even a track of Deuces. I spent nearly a month in Texas looking for him with a damn good scout.”
“We got Geronimo.”
“He came in and surrendered.”
Undisturbed by Burt’s interpretation, the officer continued, “Deuces recently rode in the reservation and abducted a White Mountain Apache girl—got clean away with her.”
Burt nodded; he had heard about the incident. “Way the story went, he stole some damn fast horses out of Sulphur Springs Valley to relay on, too.”
“I believe that was the same report I received. But you know how fragile our situation is up there at San Carlos. What I mean is the difference between keeping those hot-blooded young bucks on the reservation and them wanting to join the likes of this Deuces in Mexico?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t blame them. If I had to sit under a greasewood bush in that hell hole you call an agency and wait for the next delivery of stringy beef, I might want to join Deuces, too.”
“I understand, Marshal, that you are planning on going into Mexico after some criminals.”
“I’m going after a bandit by the name of Torres. The governor of Sonora has denied my other request to arrest the army payroll robbery suspect Taylor.”
“A shame. Some good soldiers were killed in that robbery. But about this hostile—Deuces. Do you have any idea where he is down there?”
“One-Eye, an Apache scout who’s also a deputy U.S. marshal, says Deuces, no doubt, is up in the Sierra Madres. However, in the short time span the Sonora governor has allowed me to capture Torres and get out of Sonora, I have no time to go search for a needle in a haystack in the Madres, if that’s what you’re angling at.” He stretched his aching back muscles and waited for the officer’s reply.
“My superiors certainly want some sort of reassurance that a sortie down there would have a chance of being successful.”
“Why not sent Tom Horn, then? I understand he and this Deuces worked together as scouts in those mountains.”
“You, of course, know that Tom Horn and General Miles had some strong words at Geronimo’s surrender.”
“Words or not, Tom Horn is your man. Not me.”
“I doubt I could—”
“Depends on how bad you want Deuces. Horn’s the man. Miles can like it or not. And maybe after all that’s happened, even Horn couldn’t get him to come in.” Burt looked off through the heat waves that distorted Mount Lemon’s towering height to watch a lone buzzard ride on the up drafts. “I was Deuces, I wouldn’t come in, either.”
“Thank you, sir.” The officer turned to leave.
“Hold up, Hampton My wife would skin me alive if I don’t invite you in for a cool drink and some food.”
“Very good. I accept.”
Burt gave a head toss toward the house and untied the roan to put it in the corral until later. Angela loved to fuss over company, and a nice-looking officer like him would make her day. He undid the lead and slapped the roan on the butt, then closed the gate after him. He needed a break, anyhow.
That evening, Pedro and Burt’s Apache deputy arrived at the ranch after dark. Angela fed them, and the three men talked around the table after they ate.
“We only have ten days to get in there, find Torres, and get out.”
“Why a time schedule?” Pedro asked with a frown.
“Number one, the governor don’t like armed Americans tromping all over his count
ryside. Secondly, he said only two deputies, then stipulated that we not murder Torres.”
Pedro laughed, and One-Eye smiled.
“We can ride to this place Diablo in two days,” Pedro said.
“Then if he hasn’t been warned by that time, we can surprise him.” Burt shook his head. This job looked a lot tougher than it seemed when he first received the letter.
“What if I put out the word, we’re going to Mexico after—” Pedro scratched his sideburns.
“Deuces.” Burt smiled at the notion.
“Yes, at least put that out around Tucson. The word would get to Torres that’s who we’re after, and he wouldn’t worry about us.”
“Might work,” Burt agreed. “We still have two horses left to shoe. Get that done tomorrow while you take the buckboard back into Tucson, and tell everyone we’re going after Deuces.”
One-Eye leaned back in the chair and laughed. “You know, among the Apaches, Deuces is becoming a big legend.”
“Yes. Captain Hampton from San Carlos was here today wanting me to go look for him. He says at the rate they’re going, Deuces will soon have the young bucks following him down there if they don’t stop him.” Burt looked across at the expectant-looking scout. “I said no, we couldn’t.”
“Good deal. He’s hard to track.” One-Eye shook his head.
“We better get some sleep,” Burt said.
He showed the two outside, then returned.
“You will be careful in Mexico?” she asked.
“I’m always careful.” And he buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair. The roof still wasn’t fixed, and he was riding out again. Most of all, he hated to leave her and the warm, sensuous body he hugged.Whew, she had become addictive to him. Two nights left to share the bed with her, and he’d be gone again.
The three left the ranch before daybreak, leading two pack horses. Skirting Tucson to keep the gossip down aside from the word that Pedro left while securing supplies, they made the Tubac by sundown. The Santa Cruz River offered their weary horse stock running water and lots of curly grass to fill their hollow bellies.
Burt planned to rest at the old fort until noon the next day, so their border crossing in the village of Nogales would be after midnight. Less for gossiping tongues to tell about.
Firewood was gathered, a fire built, and beans boiled. Earlier, Burt had bought tortillas from an old woman making them outside a small store. So they ate beans in flour tortillas and some with honey from their supplies for their trip.
A day later, with the acrid slick taste of desert dust on Burt’s tongue, they rode the greasewood flats headed southeasterly from Nogales for Diablo. Pedro promised they would be there by dark, and he would check with a woman who knew all about the bandit’s movement. Pedro’s effort to find Torres had Burt impressed: all the man’s hard work and the risks he took for his sake. He also felt concern over how close Pedro came to losing his life—and the bloody bed scene at Carla’s never left his thoughts for long. The threesome gnawed on jerky, dry cheese, and crackers for substance as they rode.
“What did you eat in Texas?” Pedro asked.
One-Eye shook his head warily as the three men rode abreast through the stirrup-tall greasewood. “Sometimes people would feed us. Sometimes we ate jerky, and sometimes he would cook.”
“He a good cook?” Pedro asked with a head toss at Burt.
“Sometimes,” the Apache said, and grinned.
Pedro and One-Eye scouted the village of Diablo. The consensus between them was the sight of a gringo might forewarn Torres and send him off in flight. So the two slipped into the town under the cover of night, leaving Burt with a rifle across his lap and his back against a warm rock to guard the horses in a dry wash.
Somewhere a coyote yapped at the rising moon and made its cowardly way along the ridge above to check out the invaders in its land. At discovery of the horses, it tucked its bushy tail to its rectum and fled off into the desert, no doubt counting its good fortune for surviving the encounter. Noisy insects filled the night with sounds. Burt considered the work he needed done at the ranch when this was over.
He turned an ear and heard the soft steps of someone in the sand. He raised the rifle with both hands to be ready.
“It is me, Señor.” Pedro came and squatted on the ground beside him. “Torres is in the saloon. One-Eye is guarding the back way. You want to take him?”
“That’s what we came for. How about a horse for him to ride?”
“He rode a big horse in. It is hitched outside the can-tina.”
“What’s he look like?”
“He is a big man. Like you. Has a beard and mustache and wears a big black sombrero.”
“Anything else?” Burt rose and brushed off the seat of his pants.
“There are some hombres in the bar.” Pedro made a face. “But they are not pistoleros. The bartender—I will watch him.”
“We don’t want to have to stand any murder trial.” Burt chuckled and tightened the cinch on the roan horse. “Let’s go get him.”
“You know I owe him for that beating?”
“I’ve been thinking on that.” Grasping on the horn, Burt pulled himself into the saddle. “Let’s make sure we have him and are on our way home first.”
“Sí, Señor.”
“Burt,” he reminded him for the hundredth time.
Slowly, they rode up the starlit street past the dark jacals. A few cur dogs barked, but all else was silent, except for the insects’ sizzle. At the hitch rack stood hip shot horses. Soft candlelight filtered out the front door of the cantina.
Burt dismounted. His thumb pushed the rawhide thong guard off the hammer of his Colt, and, out of habit, he shifted it to be exactly where he wanted it. Then he shared a nod with Pedro to go ahead.
Sounds of a guitar filled the night. Burt came on the right, Pedro on the left of the hitch rail. Burt paused for moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the light, then pushed through the doorway.
All heads swiveled in his direction, and even the music stopped. Burt’s gaze fell on the big man’s back and black hat just as he twisted half around to see him.
“Alfredo Torres?”
The man started up out of the chair, but not quickly enough. Burt’s .45 muzzle was jammed in his back.
“You’re under arrest. You savvy dying?” Burt asked, and swept the big hat away.
“Sí.”
“Raise your hands slow-like, and tell all your com-pañeros to sit tight.”
“Don’t try anything—” Torres said sharply to the other hard-eyed men at the table.
“You wish to die, hombre? You just try to bring out that shotgun,” Pedro said to the bartender. “Get out from behind there. You already know how good I can shoot.”
The shorter man raised his hands high, his face blanched and his anxious stare directed at Burt’s posse man
“You can’t get me out of Mexico, you stupid gringo.” Torres laughed.
“Oh, you don’t know. The governor—he don’t like you,” Burt said, and ripped the pistol out of the outlaw’s holster. He jammed it in his waistband, then tossed the large knife on the floor. No doubt, the man had more weapons than that on him, but Burt had removed the obvious ones. He cuffed Torres’s hands, then looked over the half dozen frowning faces and the two skinny putas. No signs of resistance in any of them.
“Pedro, march your friend the bartender out back, and get One-Eye. I’m ready to leave.”
“Get going, hombre,” Pedro said, using his pistol to poke him in the back. He marched the man out through the back door.
Burt, satisfied, shoved Torres toward the front one.
“You will never live to see the border,” Torres said through his teeth.
“If your men try anything, you’ll be the first to die. Want to tell them that now?” Burt asked, loudly enough that everyone could hear him.
“You won’t—”
“The hell I won’t shoot you.” And he shoved the bandit for the b
atwing doors. Outside on the boardwalk, he nodded to his deputies.
“The bartender?” he asked.
“Sleeping,” Pedro said, and untied the reins of the horses at the hitching rail. “We can borrow one of these for One-Eye, huh?”
Burt nodded. He kept a close eye on the bandit and the lighted doorway for any sign of resistance. With Torres in the saddle on the horse Pedro selected and One-Eye’s rifle held on the outlaw, Burt mounted the roan.
“Let’s ride,” he said, and they hurried out of Diablo.
While they paused to gather the pack horses from the dry wash, Burt made certain the cuffs would contain Torres by using a second pair to lock him to the saddle horn. One-Eye abandoned the borrowed horse for his own, and they set out northward.
“How far to the border?” he asked.
“Maybe seventy miles,” Pedro said.
“All desert?”
“There are some springs,” One-Eye said.
“I’ll trust you,” Burt said, checking over his shoulder. He knew that the former scout had been across this land many times chasing the hostiles. If anyone knew where to find water, he did. The real question was how many friends the big outlaw had—they might learn that number before they reached the border.
They rode in the silver night for the invisible line, save for a few survey stakes that showed the division between Mexican law and the United States.
Besides cursing them under his breath, Torres remained the unblown volcano. The arrest went too easy. Burt twisted in the saddle. No sign in the night so far of any pursuit. Didn’t mean that wheels weren’t grinding out behind them to recover their boss.
They used their horses hard to make plenty of distance between them and any pursuit. Pedro led the outlaw’s horse. Rifle in hand, the Apache brought on the pack string. Burt rode with them, lashing the laggard pack animals to keep up. He wanted them to be close enough to the line, so the following day they’d be over the border.
Close to two A.M., they drew up at a spring that One Eye guided them to.Torres was cuffed to a mesquite tree for safekeeping. Burt walked four of the horses to cool them so they didn’t stiffen, while his men watered the others. Leading the snorting horses, Burt studied the constellations and felt satisfied their route was as direct as one could find.
Deuces Wild Page 18
