by Ralph Cotton
“You heard him, boys,” said Endo Clifford, sounding excited. “Let’s get to stretching their necks—”
From the ground near the campfire, the other Belltrae brother spoke up in a weak voice, cutting Clifford off.
“I . . . will identify him,” he said. “He was . . . with us.”
“Say what . . . ?” said Clifford, looking surprised.
Miller walked over to the fire and looked down at the other Belltrae brother’s battered face.
“Who is he, Collard?” he asked in a no-nonsense tone. He took out Summers’ paperwork and shook it in his hand. “He gave me a name. But I want to hear it from you.”
Collard stared up at the sheriff through his purple eyes for a second.
“Smith,” he said in a strained voice.
“Smith, huh?” said Miller, not liking Collard’s reply. He clenched his big fists at his sides. “I just knew I’d end up kicking you some more,” he said, drawing back his wet left boot. “I swear I believe you two like taking a beating better than I do giving it.”
“No, wait. . . . It is the name he . . . told us,” said Collard. He raised a blue trembling hand to protect himself. “Ol’ Hendrik bring him . . . to us.”
“Yeah?” said Miller, turning in place, looking from face to face, seeing the men reflect possibility in their eyes. He stared at Ezra with a start of a smile. “Now what do you say? Your brother’s decided to do the right thing and—”
“He’s lying,” Ezra said, stone-faced, cutting him off. “We don’t know . . . this man.” His voice sounded stronger than it had moments earlier.
“Are you lying to me, Collard?” Miller asked the brother on the ground.
“No,” Collard said weakly. “Ezra . . . is lying.” He pointed a finger at his brother.
“I am . . . telling the truth,” came Ezra’s rebuttal. “My brother is lying.”
Miller looked back and forth between the Belltrae brothers and cursed under his breath. He shoved the paperwork back into his pocket behind his rain slicker.
“Never mind with those ropes, fellows,” he said to the Mexican rifleman. “These two are hardheaded.”
“Wait a minute, Sheriff Bert,” said Clifford. “You mean we’re not even going to hang them?”
“No, we’re not, Endo,” said Miller. “Not right now, not right here.” He looked at the Belltrae brothers. “These two we could hang today. But I want somebody besides me to decide whether or not this one was in on it. As it stands right now, I don’t know what to make of it.”
“They’re doing this on purpose, to keep them from hanging a day or two sooner,” said Clifford, staring at the Belltraes in turn. “These sons a’ bitches.”
“Could be,” said Miller. “But he does have these papers on the fillies, and I know for a fact Swann was looking for some breeding stock.” He looked at Summers with mixed contempt. “I’m not hanging a man unless I’m certain he’s guilty.”
“That’s not much better than wasting a lot of time having a trial and that whole mess,” said Clifford.
“That’s how we’re doing it this time, Endo,” Miller said with a firm stare. “So button your lip about it. Soon as the storm lets up, we’re headed to Swann’s ranchero on our way to Dark Horses—see what Ansil Swann says about this one.” He looked Summers up and down and said to him, “So far the Belltraes are all that’s keeping you alive, mister.”
Summers just stared at him.
“Yeah, they are,” Clifford put in, “but only for a day or two. You’ll all three hang when we get you to Swann’s ranch.” He spat on the ground between them. Then he bumped against Summers as he and Miller stepped away toward the fire and two Mexican riflemen moved in to take their place.
• • •
As the storm pounded and whaled on the Mexican hillsides, Will Summers and the Belltrae brothers sat leaning against a stone wall in flickering torchlight. The three watched in silence as a Mexican walked out along the stone causeway shaft to where Summers had tied his dapple gray and the string of fillies. The gray sawed its head in protest and jerked against the reins as the man led the five animals inside the cavern.
“That’s a fine-looking . . . gray you ride, mister,” said Ezra in a hushed and pained voice. He sat the closest to Summers and appeared to be less badly beaten than his brother. He spoke sidelong as his head lolled back against the stone.
“Are we going to talk horses now?” Summers said in a clipped tone without turning to face the man.
Ezra fell silent for a moment. Finally he let out a pained breath.
“We jackpotted you to keep Miller from hanging us,” he said.
“I know,” Summers said, staring straight ahead, watching the Mexican check his horses over good. “But you heard the deputy. It’s only for a day or two. You’ll hang soon enough.”
“For a living man, a day or two means nothing,” he said. “For a man who is to be hanged . . . a day is an eternity.”
Summers heard a mixed accent of wilderness French and schooled English in the man’s voice.
“You got me there,” he replied. “I didn’t like the prospect of hanging any more than you did.”
“I know,” said Ezra with resolve. “And now it is us, not you, who will hang—not if Swann identifies you as a man bringing him horses.”
“He will,” said Summers. “That is, if we can get to his place without the sheriff’s crazy deputy shooting us first.” He continued staring straight ahead as he spoke. Across the low-burning fire, he watched the Mexican run an appraising hand down the horse’s foreleg.
“Endo Clifford . . . is no deputy,” said Ezra Belltrae, sounding a little stronger, “any more than Bert Miller is a sheriff.”
Summers cut a sidelong glance at him.
“Then they sure fooled me,” he said skeptically. “They’re both wearing badges.”
“Don’t be deceived by . . . badges,” said Collard Belltrae, raising himself a little against the stone wall. “They are hired killers. Nothing more.”
Ezra helped his brother adjust himself upright. Then he turned back to Summers.
“What my brother, Collard, means is that they are not elected lawmen. They work for Swann,” he said. “That’s the only reason they’re taking all three of us to Swann. They don’t want to do something out here . . . that they will have to answer for to Swann. He’s the man who pays them. Swann wields much influence with the Mexican government. Without Swann, men like Miller and Endo Clifford know they would be treated like the murderers and thieves they are.”
“This is Mexico,” said Summers. “But I suppose enough money buys a man like Swann powerful influence wherever his business takes him.”
Ezra Belltrae nodded his bruised head.
“Yes, money is the way of the world,” he said, rubbing his thumb and fingertip together in the universal sign for greed. “Swann’s mining companies are held in high favor by the Mexican government. His mines have brought in the money and resources it takes to turn a poor Mexican hill town like Dark Horses into a prosperous business settlement.”
“I can’t fault a man for making his fortune,” Summers said. He turned his head enough to look the two up and down.
“Nor can I,” said Ezra Belltrae. “You asked me how he has such influence, so I tell you.” As Ezra paused, Collard took up the conversation.
“Dark Horses is Swann’s dream of what Old Mexico must someday become—he calls it Little America,” he said.
“Does he, now?” said Summers. “And how is it that you know all this?”
The two brothers looked at each other for a moment, then back at Summers.
“We know it because . . . we once worked for him,” Collard said, his voice still strained.
“Until we decided to leave his employ and start working for ourselves,” said Ezra.
“Steal
ing horses?” Summers asked.
“No,” said Ezra, ignoring the accusation. He nodded at the quirt still hanging from Summers’ wrist. “We make bridles, quirts, anything that can be braided from horsehair.”
Summers examined the quirt.
“You do good work,” he said. “But you’re not making a living at it around here.”
“No, we are not,” said Ezra. “We sell our goods across the border, in Texas, in Arizona.”
“We also break and sell wild mustangs,” said Collard.
“Like yourself, we are horse traders,” Ezra put in. “Only we are Indian and not welcome in the same places as you.”
Indian. . . . Summers looked at them closer.
“What tribe are you from?” he asked.
“Micmac—” Collard started to say.
“Chinook,” Ezra said over him.
“Right.” Summers nodded skeptically, dismissing them both. He turned away.
“Wait,” said Ezra. “What my brother, Collard, meant is, we’re French-Indian. We have the blood of the Micmac, the Flathead and the Chinook in us.” He paused. “We are mission-school Indian—look at us. Do you doubt it?”
“No,” said Summers, “I don’t doubt you.” He listened toward the storm outside the cavern, noting it had begun to sound farther away along the hillsides. Good, he thought. The quicker he stood before Ansil Swann, the quicker he could get this situation straightened out. No sooner had he noticed the storm starting to wane than he heard Sheriff Miller call out to his riflemen.
“All right,” Miller said, “everybody get saddled and ready. Julio tells me the storm is moving out. When it’s gone, so are we.” He added, looking all around the cavern, “We’re two days from Dark Horses, but only a day and a half to Swann’s ranch, maybe less. He sees we’ve caught these thieves, there’s a good chance you men will all get a reward of some kind—his token of appreciation.”
Ezra Belltrae leaned over closer to Summers and spoke to him in a guarded tone of voice.
“We could stay right here another week. It wouldn’t bother me at all,” he said. “I don’t want to go to Swann’s ranch.”
“Me neither,” Collard said in his pained voice. The two sat staring at Summers through their swollen eyes.
Ezra’s voice fell even quieter; he leaned even closer to Summers as he spoke.
“We might even want to leave before we get there,” he said. “Are you interested?”
Summers didn’t reply; he only gazed ahead toward his horses as if he hadn’t heard Ezra. The shape these two were in, he couldn’t see them going anywhere. This was wishful thinking on the part of two desperate men facing a noose.
Ezra read Summers’ silence and said nothing more on the matter.
Summers continued to stare straight ahead. He was pretty certain these brothers were going to hang. He was also certain he wasn’t. Once Swann saw him and cleared him, he would collect his money and be on his way. For now, the best thing he could do was separate himself from these two, keep his mouth shut and let this situation play itself out.
Chapter 4
As the last of the storm still lingered overhead, Miller led the posse and the prisoners out of the shelter of the mine shaft and into the gray light of afternoon. A Mexican rifleman had strung a rope from Summers’ wrists to the Belltraes’ in turn, keeping the three with only a short distance between their horses. Any attempt to make a sudden run for it would have ended in a tangle of horse, men and rope. Summers and the Belltraes knew it.
The three rode along at a walk. Behind them another rifleman led Summers’ string of fillies. Behind him, bringing up the rear, a Mexican led the Belltraes’ packhorse, the animal’s back covered with canvas-wrapped bundles of bloody horse meat. Miller had gotten one of the Mexicans to wrap the butchered stallion’s head in canvas and brought it along as proof of the animal’s death.
They rode on, winding down the muddy sodden hill trails until at dark they had reached a terraced plain twenty yards back from the roaring river. The edge of the plain Blue River splashed high and muddy as it raced past them.
“This is as far as we’re going tonight, compadres,” Miller called out above the roar of heavy crashing water. “Tomorrow it’ll be down some. We’ll start early looking for a place to cross.”
Summers saw the Belltraes give each other a look, but he thought nothing of it. Given the location, surrounded on two sides by a turn in the raging river, on another side by a long stretch of flatlands that offered no cover from rifle fire, he was convinced the brothers would have to wait until tomorrow to attempt any kind of escape. Their only other direction was to go back the way they came, but that would leave them racing uphill on a mud-slick trail in the black of night.
Huh-uh, I don’t think so, Summers assured himself, looking down at the length of rope holding the three together. They knew he wasn’t going with them. They wouldn’t try to force him along, take a chance on him foiling their getaway. He stepped down from atop his horse as the Belltraes and the Mexican leading them did the same.
The Mexican led the three to a large rock and seated them on the ground against it and strung their rope around it. They sat watching the posse make camp. Summers saw the Belltraes alternate their attention between the posse and the high raging river to the right. For two men who’d each taken a bad beating, Summers noted how quickly the two had come around. Their eyes were still almost swollen shut, yet they seemed to be fully conscious, undulled by the purple cuts and welts on their faces, their heads.
When a campfire had been made and coffee had been boiled, and food had been cooked over open flames, two Mexicans brought tin plates of red beans and flatbread and stood over the three with rifles while they ate. Over beside the fire Endo Clifford gave the three a harsh stare as they ate.
“Don’t see why we’re wasting good food on the Belltraes,” he called out. “It’ll be lying piled on the ground beneath their pants legs when the rope stiffens up around their necks.” He ended his grim offering with a dark laugh. The other posse men nodded; some chuckled along with him.
After Clifford’s joke the camp fell silent, the saddle-worn men’s only interest being to get themselves fed and bedded down for the night. Yet the silence only lasted for a second before Collard Belltrae finished swallowing a mouthful of beans and stared over at Clifford.
“I see you there lapping at that pile like a starving dog, Endo Clifford,” he said flatly.
The faces of the posse men turned to Clifford, who seemed to need a second to interpret Collard’s words. Then his face suddenly turned blue-red.
“You son of a bitch!” he shrieked. Flinging his tin plate of food aside, he sprang to his feet, charging toward the three prisoners.
“Get back here, Endo!” Miller commanded, trying to stop the enraged deputy. But Clifford was beyond his control. The crazed deputy hurled himself onto Collard Belltrae, barehanded, his fists swinging in a roundhouse fashion. The rope connecting the three prisoners drew tight, yanking Summers and both Belltrae brothers into the fray. Collard caught Endo Clifford in a bear hug; the two rolled back and forth in tangled rope, Clifford’s fists pounding wildly.
“Stop him!” Miller shouted at the other posse men.
In a second the posse men become engaged in the melee, three of them tangled in the prisoners’ rope as they pulled Clifford back, still kicking and screaming at Collard Belltrae. Summers managed to duck away from a swinging fist. Clifford continued to kick and fight until Miller stepped in, grabbed him by his throat and slung him sidelong to the ground. Two Mexican posse men pinned him to the dirt.
Clifford stopped struggling when he looked up and saw Miller’s rifle butt loom menacingly above his face.
“That’s all of it, Endo!” Miller shouted. “If you want to keep that badge you’ll get control of yourself.”
“You heard what he said, Sheriff—”
Endo started.
“I don’t give a damn what he said,” bellowed Miller. He held the rifle butt ready to jam into the deputy’s face. “What’s it going to be?”
Clifford settled, let out a breath and submitted under the grip of the two posse men atop him.
“All right, I’m done with it,” he said. “I lost my head to these horse-eating sons a’ bitches, Sheriff, but now I’m good.” He spread his hand as if in surrender. “Let me up, damn it,” he said coolly to the posse men.
The posse men looked up at Miller for direction.
“All right, let him up,” Miller said.
As the posse men stood up from atop Clifford, Miller reached a hand down and helped the deputy pull himself to his feet. Summers and the Belltraes lay watching in their tangled rope, still tied to the large rock behind them.
“Do something like that again, Endo,” Miller threatened, “I’ll tear that badge from your chest and chase you out of here.”
“I won’t, Sheriff,” said Clifford, slapping damp dirt from his chest, his trousers. “You’ve got my word.”
Miller looked around at the prisoners’ discarded tin plates and cups, the beans strewn on the ground, the coffee spilled.
“That was all the supper you’re getting tonight,” he said. He looked at one of the Mexican posse men. “Julio, you and Hector march them out a ways, let them relieve themselves. Then bed them down for the night.” He turned to Collard Belltrae, who sat wiping a fresh trickle of blood from his lower lip. “Shoot your mouth off again, I won’t lift a finger to stop Endo from killing you.”
Collard only glared at him as he, his brother and Summers stood for the guards, their hands tied in front of them, the lead rope strung between their wrists.
“My brother has said all he has to say, Sheriff,” said Ezra Belltrae.
Summers only stared at the Belltraes until the posse men gestured the three of them toward a stand of brush a few yards away. They walked there and back in silence, and when they returned, even though nothing more was said, Summers noted to himself a new air of resolve about the two brothers. Something had changed for the Belltraes, he noted, yet, as tired and hungry as he was, he put the two out of his mind. He lay back on the damp ground as the guards retied their lead rope around the rock for the night.
