Rio Matanza (Bodie Kendrick - Bounty Hunter Book 2)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  Kendrick swore again as he continued his sweep with the field glasses. He paused on a blocky, flat-roofed building with a pair of tan-uniformed men standing out front, smoking. A barracks of some sort, he concluded; whether permanent or temporary, he couldn't tell. A ways farther down the street there was a brightly-lighted cantina with a lot of activity obviously taking place inside. Kendrick could see people passing back and forth through the open windows, many of them clad in tan Rurale uniforms. Faint strains of music and laughter floated up to him on the still night air. Lots of raucous activity taking place there, true—but not enough for it to be the carryings-on of a whole company. A bit of a break there, anyway, he told himself.

  The rest of the buildings around the plaza seemed quiet and only dimly lighted. Over in one corner stood a small, completely darkened, particularly grim-looking structure with a heavy wooden door and barred windows. Clearly a jail of some sort. A lone Rurale soldier was stationed before it, looking bored and almost indifferent as he stood leaning against the outside wall.

  So the Rurales were in town for more than just a visit. They had prisoners to deal with, either ones they had brought with them or ones who were there to be picked up.

  Kendrick's grimace deepened. He couldn't help wondering if Doc might have somehow gotten tangleways of this bunch. Was there any chance he could be behind the bars of that grim-looking structure? More likely—considering the time lapse involved—Doc should have long since arrived here, done his horse trading, and then moved on. But, hard as he tried to convince himself of that likelihood, Klendrick knew he couldn't simply accept it without making sure. Even if Doc had passed in and out of the town without trouble, that didn't mean he couldn't still have run into the Rurales out on the trail. There were too many stories of how the Rural Guard liked to harass Americanos, needling them until tempers flared and then finding cause for some trumped-up charge to be levied. And Doc's nature was certainly prickly enough to play into exactly that kind of situation …

  There was nothing else for it. The only way for Kendrick to be sure whether or not Doc was down there was to ride down and find out.

  Chapter Eight

  Kendrick waited until an hour past full dark before entering the town. He killed the time stretched out on a patch of coarse grass, resting his back and bottom. He gave Blockhead's back a rest, too, loosening his saddle and leaving him to leisurely graze.

  When it was time, Kendrick cinched up once more, climbed back into the saddle, and gigged the big chestnut down off the hill, swinging wide onto a stretch of flats and approaching the town out of the west. This was the side of town where he'd spotted the church and also a rustic-looking livery stable, currently stocked to near overflowing with horses he reckoned belonged to the Rurales. The structure he took to be a sort of barracks for the soldiers was just down from the church and on the opposite of the plaza was the cantina and the gloomy jail building.

  He rode in quietly alongside the rough-bark railing that surrounded the livery corral. Blockhead chuffed disdainfully a couple of times as he plodded past the penned-in animals. The sky was awash with stars again tonight, allowing Kendrick enough illumination to closely scan the thirty or so head of horses on the other side of the railing. Even amidst that much milling horseflesh it didn't take him long to spot Doc's big gray. His first reaction was one of dismay, but then he reminded himself that the horse's presence didn't really mean anything one way or another as far as the question of whether Doc was still in town. After all, he'd come here to swap the gray for a fresh mount. If he'd completed that transaction and moved on, the gray would still be here; just as it would be if no deal had yet been struck. So the horse, in and of itself, really told Kendrick nothing.

  There was candlelight flickering in the window of what appeared to be a living quarters attached to the livery barn. Kendrick dismounted, twirled Blockhead's reins around the hitch post, and stepped up to knock on the door.

  Before his knuckles could make contact, however, the door opened ten inches and the face of a boy peered out at him. He was no more than twelve or thirteen years of age, with bright, alert eyes under a shock of coal black hair hacked to a blunt ledge just above brows. The eyes gave Kendrick a quick once over and then the door opened wider and the boy stepped out. He closed the door behind him.

  "Can I help you, senor?"

  Kendrick grinned faintly at the direct, no-nonsense tone of the boy. "Hope so. This is a livery stable, right?"

  "Si."

  "Lookin' to put up my horse for a night or two."

  The boy cast an uncertain glance over his shoulder.

  "You ramroddin' the place tonight?" Kendrick said.

  "My grandpapa … He sleeps. He is old and very tired. He had a very busy day with the many horses of the Rurales."

  "Uh-huh. I noticed the corral is mighty crowded. So you sayin' you can't squeeze in one more?"

  The boy glanced over his shoulder again.

  "Okay, I understand," said Kendrick. "You don't want to disturb your weary grandfather and you're not certain what to do … You are a very considerate grandson."

  "Gracias, senor."

  "Tell you what. I don't want to get you in trouble and I don't want to disturb a tired old man, either." Kendrick dug out a silver dollar and held it up for the boy to see. Then he flipped it toward the youngster who skillfully caught it. "That's yours to keep if you'll allow me to water my horse and answer a question or two for me. Then I'll make some other arrangement for tonight, until your grandfather is rested and ready to do business again tomorrow."

  The boy gazed for a moment down at the silver in his palm, as if finding it hard to believe it was real. When his eyes lifted they were even bigger and rounder than before. "Si, senor! Come, follow me to the water … and I will answer your questions—if I can."

  Leading Blockhead by the reins, Kendrick followed the lad around the corner of the building to a small holding pen where there was a wooden tub of water and a small covered bin nailed to one of the upright posts. "Here, allow your fine horse to drink all he wishes," said the boy. Throwing open the hasp on the lid over the bin, he reached in and withdrew a scoop of mashed corn in a hollowed-out gourd. This he poured on the ground next to the water tub, adding, "And he is welcome to some grain, too."

  "Much obliged, son," Kendrick acknowledged. "You got a name, by the way?"

  "Si. I am Paco."

  "Pleased to meet you, Paco. I'm Bodie."

  Blockhead took some slobbering gulps of water and then lowered his snout to lap up some the mashed corn.

  "And while we're on the subject of names," Kendrick continued, "what's the name of this here town of yours?"

  "Ocochillo." Paco frowned, as if surprised that anyone would not know this.

  "Uh-huh. That's what I thought," said Kendrick. Although, in truth, he'd never heard the name before. "See, I'm supposed to be meetin' an old friend of mine in Ocochillo. But I got sort of twisted around out there in that blasted desert so I wanted to be sure I ended up at the right place. I was pretty sure I did, though, as soon as I saw that big gray out there in your corral. The one with the lame right foreleg? Looks just like the one my friend was ridin' the last time I saw him. Of course it wasn't lame back then. But, anyway, if it's the same critter then I reckon my pal must've made it here ahead of me."

  Paco looked puzzled. "Your friend is a 'he'? An hombre?"

  His question caused Kendrick to take his own turn at looking puzzled. "Why, I hope to tell you my pal's an hombre. Muy hombre. Tall, lanky fella by the name of Turpin. Dresses mostly all in black. Got sorta longish hair … with some gray shot through it?"

  Paco was wagging his head even before Kendrick finished speaking. "Senor, I am afraid you must be mistaken. The lame horse, the one you speak of—it belongs to a lady. A very beautiful senorita."

  * * * * *

  Daybreak found Kendrick cooking coffee over a smokeless fire in a narrow, rocky draw about half a mile outside of Ocochillo. He'd made his night
camp in the draw after beating a hasty retreat back out of town the previous evening following his talk with Paco. The information the boy had shared was enough to cause Kendrick to fall back in this fashion in order to do some serious re-appraising of how things stood and how he needed to proceed from here.

  Everything was inside out from the way he'd reckoned. The only thing he'd been right about was the presence of the damn Rurales serving to make matters worse.

  The gray horse in the livery corral was Doc's—the twist being that it was Estraleta who had ridden it into Ocochillo, presumably leaving Turpin to continue on with all haste to Bordados. In hindsight, it made sense. The lame horse would have been able to make its way better with the lighter load of a girl rather than a man. And separating in that manner would allow Doc to maintain the urgency that seemed so key to his mission, while Estraleta, more familiar with the territory, could catch up easier once she'd secured a new mount.

  It could have all worked out that way, too, if Estraleta hadn't had the bad luck of being spotted by the Rurales who rode into town only minutes after she did. It seemed they had recently taken into custody a handful of marauding Apaches and Lt. Royos Remoza, leader of the platoon who had chased down the savages, decided to bring the prisoners to Ocochillo for the purpose of treating the good citizens there to the spectacle of watching them be executed by firing squad.

  When one of Remoza's sharp-eyed soldiers happened to catch sight of Estraleta, he recognized her from a widely circulated description as the beautiful firebrand who was a key figure among the rebels known to be raising so much hell down in the mountains around Bordados. The alarm he sounded was promptly acted upon and Estraleta, with no chance to escape on a lame horse, was also taken into custody. After a sham of a "trial"—presided over by the alcalde of the town, a weakling who was easily influenced into conducting the affair so a guilty verdict predetermined by Remoza was guaranteed—Estraleta was also sentenced for execution.

  So that's how things stood at the beginning of this new day. The executions were scheduled for mid-morning. Revelers from within the village as well as from the surrounding countryside would soon begin gathering in the plaza. Indeed they would enjoy seeing the despised Apache raiders cut down. And while their condemnation might not be so universal where the rebel hellion was concerned, their bloodlust would be pumped to a level where they would linger over the sight of Estraleta meeting a hail of bullets, too. So few occurrences broke the monotony of life in and around the dusty little village that almost anything offering a bit of excitement was welcome.

  These were the plans currently in place.

  The only question was what Kendrick might be able to do to upset them.

  He'd pondered this all through the night. Neither the girl nor the Apaches meant anything to him. But, for reasons yet to be determined, the girl obviously meant something to Doc. The feeling that had initially gnawed at Kendrick back in New Gleanus—that Turpin had possibly been coerced away in the middle of the night against his will—now seemed unjustified. Inasmuch as Doc appeared on his way to side with the Bordados rebels, there was still cause for concern that he was surely headed into trouble. But it was trouble he seemed willing enough to participate in. And the girl, who now appeared to have been little more than a messenger bringing the request for Turpin's help, had put herself in jeopardy to make that request. As a result, she was on tap to face a firing squad … If Doc were aware of this, Kendrick concluded, he certainly would want something done to try and prevent it.

  As Doc's friend, Kendrick didn't see where he had much choice but to act in his stead.

  The way he had it figured, once a good-sized crowd had gathered around the plaza, he should be able to blend in without drawing much notice. That would put him in position to take some kind of action—he didn't yet know exactly what—once the proceedings were underway.

  Swallowing another sip of bitter coffee, Kendrick looked over at his chestnut, grazing nonchalantly a few feet away. "What do you think, ol' hoss? I say we ride down there, kill a bunch of them Rurales before they shoot the gal, then grab her and hightail it the hell out. How does that sound?"

  The horse looked at him blankly, continuing to chew. Kendrick grunted. "Okay, you don't have to say it … Right about now you're wonderin' why you're the one called Blockhead, ain't ya?"

  Chapter Nine

  By ten o'clock, the perimeter of the Ocochillo plaza was jammed with people. The only exception was a twelve-foot length of bare adobe wall located near the building the Rurales had commandeered for their barracks. This section was kept cleared by a pair of grim-faced soldiers whose expressions were well suited to the purpose the wall would soon be serving.

  Kendrick had eased back into town a quarter hour earlier. Clad in a seldom used blanket serape he kept wrapped in his bed roll, hat pulled low over his eyes, he tied Blockhead to a rough-bark rail and blended in as inconspicuously as possible behind a group of onlookers near to the livery stable he had visited the previous night. The boy, Paco, was nowhere in sight. Vendors, most of them youngsters of his same approximate age, were working their way through the crowd hawking tacos, pastries, roasted corn, and pails of warm beer; perhaps Paco was one of them.

  Kendrick's height allowed him to hover on the outer fringe of spectators, the majority averaging nearly a foot shorter than him, and still have a clear view of the open area in the heart of the plaza. At the moment, several of the Rurale platoon members were scrambling frantically about out there, apparently aiming to fall into some kind of military formation. Seated on a gleaming white stallion pawing restlessly beside the wagon-mounted Gatling gun, a glowering officer whom Kendrick took to be none other than Lt. Remoza, was impatiently shouting orders. When the men were finally lined up to Remoza's satisfaction, the lieutenant relaxed in his saddle and the silver stallion quit pawing. Kendrick took keen note of the fact that the Gatling gun was aimed squarely at the adobe wall.

  Everything seemed to go suddenly quiet. An anxious ripple passed through the crowd. Out in the sun-baked center of the plaza, a faint dust devil stirred up and then died out quickly.

  Chin high, eyes straight ahead, Remoza abruptly barked out an order.

  The heavy wooden door of the jail building swung open and a string of six copper-skinned Apaches, hands tied behind their backs, ankles shackled together, were led out and roughly herded in the direction of the adobe wall. Four Rurale guards—one leading the column, one at the rear, one on either side—used their rifle butts to shove and prod the restrained men. The crowd jeered at the prisoners and black, hate-filled eyes glared back in response.

  When they reached the wall, the marauders were lined up across its face. The guards stepped back, keeping their muzzles trained on the men. But the Indians stood motionless, no fear showing in their eyes, only disdain and the deeply smoldering hate.

  An old priest had emerged from the nearby church. He advanced toward the firing wall but then halted some distance back, clearly not wanting to get too close to the Apaches. In his left hand he held a worn Bible. With his right, he made a subdued sign of the cross in the general direction of the prisoners and then bowed his head to offer a silent prayer. The Apaches coldly ignored him.

  Eyes still focused straight ahead, Remoza drew his sword with a dramatic flourish and then held it pointing straight up, blade centered before his right shoulder epaulet. Two of the soldiers who had been standing in formation nearby, broke ranks and hurried to man the Gatling gun. One took his place at the firing position, the second at the ammunition hopper.

  The murmur of the crowd took on an excited pitch, like the agitated buzz of a swarm of giant insects.

  Watching, Kendrick felt a trickle of cold sweat run down between his shoulder blades. He knew he was about to witness an execution more ruthless and far bloodier than anything he or any of his fellow spectators had anticipated, let alone ever experienced.

  "Fuego!" Remoza swept his sword forward and down, its blade glinting brilliantly in the sun
.

  Chackata-chackata-chackata! The Gatling cut loose, its cylinder of rotating barrels roaring and spitting flame and lead and death as they relentlessly cranked round and round. The weapon's .45-70 cartridges could be discharged at a rate of 600 rounds a minute, but for this morning's purpose a relatively short burst of only 300 proved quite sufficient. In that terrible half-minute's time, the six hapless Apaches were chopped down and shredded to piles of bloody meat left lying in a leaking red heap at the base of the adobe wall. The latter, now pock-marked with errant bullet holes and drenched with gore spewed from the riddled bodies, was left looking as if it, too, had somehow been mortally wounded.

  The crowd had erupted in concert with the merciless gun—men shouting and cheering, women screaming. A few of the women and younger children averted their eyes, but the vast majority of those present gazed on as if mesmerized by the sight of the victims doing their jerky dances of death. As soon as the gunfire stopped, a hush descended instantly over the crowd.

  Kendrick felt certain he saw the ghost of a thin, grim smile play across the lips of Lt. Remoza and in that moment he realized the man was playing a psychological game with the citizens of Ocochillo even as he delivered this harsh brand of what passed for justice. Do not cross me, he was warning everyone who looked on. Do not get even the hint of an idea to rebel against my rule in the manner of the fools you have been hearing about down in Bordados. If you do, this is the kind of swift, terrible retaliation you will face.