The Baron War

by Jory Sherman

  “It comes from the road.”

  “I know that, too,” Reynaud said.

  “Maybe we should go back.”

  “That’s Nuncio’s problem. You keep following those tracks.”

  “But…”

  “That shooting’s none of our concern, Obispo. Now, you ride on.”

  Obispo muttered a series of Spanish curses under his breath. He kicked his horse in the flanks and continued to follow Bone’s tracks. Reynaud widened the distance between him and the Mexican, kept the muzzle pointed at Obispo’s back, his finger curled around the trigger of his flintlock.

  The tracks curved and headed into the mesquite forest. There was more shooting from the road, sharp cracks that carried on the evening air loud and clear. Obispo turned once as if to see if Reynaud was still following him. But he did not stop. Reynaud saw the woods ahead and wondered if Obispo would try to break away and lose him once they entered the thick mesquite. It was a chance he was not willing to take.

  “Obispo, hold it right there,” Reynaud said, just as the Mexican reached the edge of the mesquite forest.

  “Eh?” Obispo said, as he pulled on his reins. He turned in the saddle and looked back at Reynaud.

  “Do Bone’s tracks go in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, do you think you can follow them in this dark?”

  “In the dark?”

  “Yes, in the dark.”

  “No, I do not think I can see the tracks of Bone. It is too dark now.”

  “Then why were you going into those woods there?”

  Obispo shrugged. “I do not know. You tell me to follow Bone. I follow Bone. To here. From here I do not know where he goes.”

  “He could be anywhere,” Reynaud said.

  Obispo turned his horse around slightly so he did not have to bend his neck to talk to Reynaud. He moved slowly and his gaze followed the muzzle of the rifle in Reynaud’s hands as it moved with him. “Yes, he could be anywhere. I do not know where Bone goes.”

  “But you would take us into those trees, would you?”

  “I follow the tracks.”

  “And what if you had lost them in there? Would you have told me?”

  “Yes, I would have told you.”

  Reynaud gently brushed his horse’s flanks with the rowels of his spurs. The horse took a step toward Obispo and halted. “Why did Matteo send you along with me?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Yes, I think you do.”

  “He send me to help you.”

  “Obispo, you are going to tell me the truth, or I’m going to shoot you out of that saddle. Now, why did Matteo tell you to come with me?”

  Obispo’s moustache quivered as he wrinkled his face in a frown. Reynaud could not see his eyes, only dark holes in his square, high-cheekboned face. Small eyes, Reynaud thought, devious eyes, black agates chiseled into the skull. The eyes of a snake. He was close enough to see if Obispo’s hands moved. One of them was very close to the large Spanish pistol sticking out from his faded red sash, and Obispo’s rifle was jutting from its leather boot, within easy reach.

  “I think that Matteo,” Obispo said, “maybe he does not trust you.”

  “What makes you think that, Obispo?”

  “I don’t know. I think he just wants me to come along to see if you kill Bone. And Anson Baron.”

  Reynaud stepped his horse another two feet closer to Obispo. He held the rifle in his hand leveled at the man’s belly. “And then what would you have done? Would you have ridden back to tell Matteo I had killed those men?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Obispo, you’re a liar. Matteo sent you to kill me, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Reynaud knew Obispo was lying. Matteo would never have sent anyone along with him just to see if he carried out his orders. No, Obispo had been sent along for only one reason: To kill him.

  “What were you going to do, Obispo? Shoot me in the back?”

  “No, I do not do that.”

  There was no whining in Obispo’s voice, but Reynaud could tell the man was worried, that he was getting ready to make a move. Obispo’s voice was pitched just slightly higher, just enough above his usual register that Reynaud knew he could not wait much longer.

  “I think you were sent to kill me. Now, isn’t that the truth?”

  “No. Matteo, he don’t say nothing about killing you. He say just to watch you. Protect you maybe.”

  Now Reynaud knew for sure that Obispo was lying. Matteo would never send a man to protect him. Matteo had something inside him that was as hard and cold as iron, something mean and tough that was not quite human. Reynaud knew, and understood, because he had that same something inside himself. He had killed men before, and felt nothing afterward. He had felt nothing before he killed the men he had killed. He did not consider killing sinful or illegal, but right—his right, as a man. Matteo was like that, too. He had seen it in Matteo’s eyes, heard it in his voice when he talked of his hatred for Martin Baron, for all the Barons. No, Matteo would not care if any of his men lived or died. He was not that way. But he would send one man to kill another. As Matteo hoped he, Reynaud, would kill the Barons; not because Matteo did not have the balls to do it, but because he wanted them dead, and it made no difference to Matteo who killed them, or how they died. When it was over, and the Barons were dead, he would not give them another thought.

  “You are not going to kill me, Obispo.”

  “No. I am not going to kill you.”

  “But I am going to kill you,” Reynaud said evenly, his voice flat as a cold iron griddle.

  “But why? I have done you no harm, Reynaud. I do not know why you want to kill me.”

  “Because I don’t trust you. Because I know Matteo sent you to kill me.”

  “No, Matteo did not tell me to kill you.”

  “You liar.”

  That’s when Obispo went for his pistol. For a split second Reynaud’s stomach swirled with a sickening fear. Obispo was fast, very fast. His arm whipped like a snake uncoiling and his hand blurred toward the butt of his pistol, like a shadow cast by some small quick animal. Regaining his senses, Reynaud did not hesitate. He squeezed the trigger of his cocked rifle and felt the jolt of the recoil and the muzzle belched an orange flame peppered with unexploded black powder. A puff of white smoke clouded his view, but he heard a grunt from Obispo and knew the lethal lead ball had struck home, probably in the Mexican’s belly. He ducked, but there was no explosion from Obispo’s pistol.

  Fast as he was, Obispo had not been able to draw his weapon. When the smoke dissipated in the light breeze, Reynaud saw that Obispo was still in the saddle, hunched up and half doubled over, one hand clutching his midsection.

  “Maldita…” Obispo muttered.

  Reynaud rode up close to the wounded man, so close he could see the blood oozing through Obispo’s fingers.

  “I wish Matteo was here to watch you die, Obispo, you son of a bitch.”

  “Tu hijo de puta,” Obispo gasped, his bloodless lips scarcely moving as he bit off each word.

  “Curse me, you bastard, but you’re dying like the dog you are, like you were going to make me die.”

  “Chingate, Reynaud.”

  Reynaud laughed. He grabbed the hair at the back of Obispo’s head and jerked on it, pulling the dying man’s head back. Then he leaned over and spit in Obispo’s face. He released his grip on the Mexican’s hair and slapped him hard across the chin.

  “Do you think your curses do me any harm? I’ll piss on your grave, you miserable cochón.”

  Obispo tried to spit at Reynaud, but only caused more blood to gush from his stomach. His eyes glazed with the pain surging through him and he clenched his teeth as if to bite it off. He began to lean to his left and could not stop himself. He fell from the saddle and hit the ground on his shoulder. He rolled over, facing the dark sky above him.

  “Another minute, ten, a half hour. That’s all
the time you have left, Obispo. I hope you take your pain with you, straight to hell.”

  “Tu hijo de mala leche,” Obispo whispered.

  “I’ll leave you to your cursing and your dying. A pity you do not pray for your black soul.”

  Reynaud turned his horse away from the dying Obispo and looked up at the sky. He headed north toward the Box B, toward Baronsville. He did not see the man on horseback who emerged from the thick shadows of the mesquite and rode over to where Obispo lay dying.

  “You are dying,” Bone said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any money on you?”

  “No. I left it with my wife.”

  “I will take your horse,” Bone said.

  “Take the horse. But shoot me, eh?”

  “No,” Bone said. “You will have to do that yourself.”

  “I am lying on my pistol. I cannot reach it.”

  Bone grabbed the reins of Obispo’s horse and pulled on them to bring the horse in behind him.

  “You will find a way, if you want to die quick enough,” Bone said.

  “You bastard. Are you going to kill Reynaud?”

  “No. Somebody will kill him.”

  Obispo gagged and then went into a coughing fit. Bone rode away from him, to the south, toward the Rocking A, leading Obispo’s horse.

  As he rode away, Obispo tried to sit up. Blood spurted from his belly wound and he fell back. He gasped and tried to pull air into his lungs, but the breath he had breathed out was his last.

  Bone heard a rifle shot from the road that cut through the mesquite grove. The sound died on the plain, and it grew quiet once again.

  He looked up at the stars in the sky and thought of Dawn. He would see her this night, and they would ride away from the Rocking A and Matteo Aguilar and find another place to live and raise their son. He found himself hoping that he would see Anson again one day, that he would survive this night and live a long life.

  35

  ANSON HEARD THE muffled sound of a distant rifle shot. He froze for a moment as he scrambled to make sense of it. He turned to Peebo and whispered: “Did you hear that?”

  “It was way off yonder in the mesquite behind us.”

  “Wonder who in hell it could be.”

  “You tell me, son.”

  “Well, we can’t wait any longer. We’ll probably lose a horse, but it’s the only way I can figure.”

  “Why can’t we just sneak through these here woods and go on by them?” Peebo asked.

  “Timo, you tell him,” Anson said.

  “There are two men who listen,” Timo said, “and they shoot good. They wait in the trees.”

  “You know these men?” Peebo asked.

  “I know them. They are from my pueblo in Mexico.”

  “Maybe you are still friends with them,” Peebo said.

  “No, I am not friends with them. They kill my brother one day. Mens no good.”

  “Then I guess that’s that,” Peebo said.

  “Looks like it,” Anson said. “If we tried to make it across the road, we wouldn’t get five yards. Juanito once told me sometimes it’s best to meet the enemy head-on.”

  “This Juanito. He was a soldier, too?”

  “No, and he wasn’t talking about war or fighting, in particular. He was talking about problems in general.”

  “So he didn’t really know about fighting and war. That right?”

  “Juanito knew about a hell of a lot of things, Peebo. Now, you just shut up about him.”

  Anson did not question why he would think of Juanito at such a time. Juanito would have known exactly what to do in this situation. He would not be guessing as Anson knew he was doing. He had remembered that one thing Juanito had said, but he also remembered so many other things. Was this the best way to attack the enemy and escape? Probably not. Matteo’s men were afoot. He and Peebo had two horses. But there were also three people for those two horses. Sure, they could backtrack and encircle the woods on the other side and escape with their lives; but that would leave Matteo’s men alive and able to attack the Box B.

  All those men would do, Anson reasoned, would be to wait for Matteo to arrive and then join him. Well, he wasn’t going to leave them alive to fight again another day. He had come here to stop Matteo’s advance on the Box B and he meant to do it—any way he could. If he had to lose a horse or both of them, he would, by the gods, shoot that man out of the tree and any others that fell under his sights.

  “We’re going to shoot our way through,” Anson said aloud. “So get ready.”

  “What’re you aimin’ to do, exactly?” Peebo asked.

  Anson explained. Timo said nothing. Peebo swallowed hard before he spoke. “Mighty dangerous,” he said.

  “We’ll have to run like hell after we finish shooting as many of them as we can.”

  “And how are we going to get back to the Box B?”

  “Walk, if we have to. Timo? Listo?”

  “Yes, I am ready,” Timo said in English.

  “Then let’s do it,” Anson said. “I’ll put my horse on the left, Peebo.”

  “That’s mighty decent of you, son. But from the looks of it, it won’t make no damned difference.”

  “It’s our only chance. The way I see it.”

  “Okay,” Peebo said.

  The three men stood up, very slowly. Peebo and Anson got their horses and lined them up side by side.

  “Reckon they’ll go without leadin’?” Peebo asked.

  “I’ll lead my horse right up to where those jaspers are, then duck back. When I start running, you and Timo start running. Stay on that side of your horse and I’ll come up behind you.”

  “You’ll be right out in the open,” Peebo said.

  “Only for a second or two. Long enough, maybe, to drop that man up in the tree. Come on, before I start getting scared.”

  “Hell, son, I got enough ‘scared’ to go around. No sense in you gettin’ it on your own.”

  Anson stepped in front of his horse and pulled on the reins. The horse balked. Then one of Matteo’s men fired a shot and the ball kicked up dust in front of Anson. The horse stepped out and Anson started to run. He carried his rifle in his right hand. Peebo kept right up with him and Timo ran alongside, hunched over. Rifles barked and Anson heard the whine of lead. He saw flashes from the ground, but none from the man in the tree.

  As the three men and two horses drew near the position of Matteo’s men, the firing stopped. Anson could hear the metallic and wooden slide of ramrods and wiping sticks. He began to trot faster. A few yards away from the shorn tree, he saw the silhouette of the man sitting in it. A second later he saw the orange flash as the man fired a shot at Anson’s horse. He heard the sickening thud of the ball as it struck the flesh of his horse’s neck. The horse staggered and its front legs buckled.

  Anson let the reins fall from his hand.

  He dropped to one knee as the horse’s hind legs skidded out from under it and the animal fell on its side.

  Anson held the image of the tree shooter in his mind as he brought his rifle up to his shoulder. The afterimage of the orange flash still burned like a flower on fire in the forefront of his brain. He cocked the rifle as he drew it to his shoulder and dropped the blade front-sight on the man in the tree. He could see the Mexican pull his wiping stick as he lined up the rear buckhorn with the blade.

  Peebo fired his rifle and Anson heard a man cry out in pain. Then there was another shot as Anson squeezed the trigger and felt his own rifle ram against his shoulder with the explosion of ninety grains of double-fine powder. He heard the flint strike, the whoosh of the fine powder in the pan and the full explosion, so close together they might have been a single sound and the air in front of him was filled with a cloud of white smoke that obscured his vision.

  Anson did not wait to see if he had struck his target, but rose to full length, grabbed his saddlebags and dashed after Peebo’s horse. Behind him, he heard a rustle and then a crash as if a b
ody had landed on the ground. Then he heard a scream, followed by the staccato chatter of men speaking in rapid Spanish. Above it he heard one man trying to bark orders, shouting, in Spanish: “Alla. Fuego, fuego.”

  Anson was glad to see that Peebo was angling his horse toward the mesquite forest on the opposite side of the road. He saw Timo trotting close to Peebo, trying to reload his rifle on the run. Peebo was guiding his horse, almost gluing himself to its side as he ran with it.

  “Timo,” Anson said, “don’t try and reload that rifle. Just run. Get to the woods.”

  Timo didn’t answer, but he left his ramrod in the barrel of his rifle and kept his feet moving. Peebo ran a zigzag pattern and no more shots were fired as they reached the shelter of the mesquite. They went a few yards inside the forest. Anson stopped and turned around. “Hold up, Peebo,” he said, as he drew his ramrod from the ferrules beneath the barrel.

  “I’m goin’ to get this here rifle switched over to caplock,” Peebo said. “Lost a damned flint back there.”

  “You hit one of ’em,” Anson said.

  “So’d little old Timo here. He’s a right smart shooter.”

  Anson poured powder down the barrel of his rifle. “See if anybody’s comin’,” he told Peebo.

  “Timo, you hold this here horse,” Peebo said. He rammed his rifle down into its boot and drew his caplock pistol. He ran to the edge of the mesquite and hunkered down to look across the road.

  Anson finished loading his rifle and joined him as Timo began to reload his weapon.

  “See anything?” Anson asked.

  “Hard for them to hide, what with wearin’ them white cotton shirts and trousers.”

  Anson saw blotches of white back in the trees on the other side of the road. Matteo’s men were moving around. He heard the murmur of voices that rose and fell, just barely audible.

  “They might be gettin’ ready to come after us,” Peebo said.

  “They can’t see us, can they?”

  “I don’t know. You dropped that jasper in the tree. Maybe one of them has owl eyes.”

  After a moment, Anson saw something move. The movement was odd and he couldn’t determine what it was, at first.

  “What’s that?” Anson asked.