Before the animal’s tiny legs completely burned away, Juan removed the charred creature from the steaming branch and forced himself to eat, carefully nibbling at the stringy meat. It was not mother Smythe’s kidney pie, but better than eating snake, and the Brazos was not far. I should be able to catch a possum or raccoon. Anything would be better than eating grass and these damnable prairie dogs.
Kidney pie? Now, there was a thought for a hungry man. He must be the only Mexican in the world with a taste for kidney pie. His thoughts shifted wistfully to visions of his deceased mother, the Lady Madelein Smythe, whom Santa Anna had seduced, betrayed, and ultimately broken.
Juan found himself fondling the Sharps rifle cradled in his arms. The bandolero loosely strung across his chest held a mere ten rounds, but in his mind he was ready. Vengeance would come. That, at least, was worth waiting for.
Juan caressed the smooth, well oiled machine. He might be starving, but he’d never failed to care for the rifle. It was family. The rifle had been given him by a dying old bandit who had ridden with him no more than a month before being killed by soldiers. It had changed Juan’s life, turned him into a man of respect. In countless skirmishes along the border, fighting Texas Rangers and troops of the Mexican government, Juan had astonished his compañeros with the accuracy of his fire. He had brought down game at incredible distances, providing food where others had failed.
But now, there was no game to be killed at any distance. Something strange was happening on the prairie. The Buffalo were disappearing, as were the antelope. The stinking gringos were devastating the land, stripping it of everything that moved. He hated gringos.
Juan scraped the last birdlike leg-bone of meat with his teeth, sucking it out of his mouth with a long popping sound, and tossed the remains onto the fire. He did not realize how bad off he had been or how much he had needed food until the gray fuzz of his peripheral vision began to disappear. His thinking cleared, but the reality of his situation left little to celebrate. Juan considered his chance of survival at little better than fifty-fifty. If his horse could make it. The poor beast was skin and bone. It could not last much longer.
“Well, if you die on me, caballo, he said, startling himself and spooking the horse with the first words he’d said aloud for days, “I will eat you for sure. But try to hang on, eh? There will be good grass and plenty of water tomorrow.”
The small stream wandering off in the shallow gulch to his left must empty into the Brazos. All of the land in this area sloped toward a river of some kind. He gathered himself and stood, clothes hanging loose on his whip-thin body. He tightened his gun belt another notch. If he lost any more weight, he’d be unable to keep his pants up.
Gunfire! Juan stiffened for an instant and ducked. That was no popping rat. He’d been hearing it all along, too numb with hunger to track.
Juan’s well developed survival instincts took over. He kicked dirt over the burning buffalo chip, grabbed his bony horse’s rein and ran half stumbling into a shallow watercourse near his camp. He flopped down in the sand, heart pounding in his ears. The firing had come from beyond the gully where it steepened and disappeared from sight. Had he been seen? It didn’t seem so. Whatever was going on was someone else’s trouble.
Rising cautiously to his knees, he whispered, “Maybe we should get out of here, caballo. Someone is having a bad day.”
All of Juan’s instincts told him to run, but something else compelled him to investigate. He had always been curious, about men, their motivations, the sky, almost everything. His mother had instilled in him a sense of wonder of life and nature that had served him well over the years. Now, it told him to see what benefit there might be had from this battle.
Juan slithered forward on his belly, brushing salty smelling grass from his path until he reached the lip of a canyon and peered over the edge. The panorama of the Brazos River extended from right to left as far as he could see. A large group of men on horses were scattering toward the river, apparently from the fire of a lone man behind a boulder almost directly below. Clouds of gunsmoke hung over the scene. Several bodies lay on the prairie.
The lone man was a huge, very tall gringo, the others looked to be a mixed group of Comanche Indians and ... Mexicanos? What were Mexicanos doing way up here? Could they be his old companeros? No. They would not dress themselves like that. If nothing else, his friends had pride. Comancheros?
Half the riders wore cavalry pants, ragged shirts or vests while the others were naked but for breechclouts. Most wore Mexican sombreros. A few displayed feathers on sweatbands or their hats and had painted their faces. Combined, there might be one decent outfit among them. It looked to Juan as if the men had been raiding, helping themselves to anything that would fit, regardless of how stupid it made them look. Stupid looking men, yes. But the horses, they were not stupid looking, especially that black stallion.
Juan fixed his eyes on the horse ridden by the leader of the band. He whistled softly to himself. It was the most beautiful animal he had ever seen. Coal black and shining in the sun like a diamond, the horse held its smallish head cocked high, tail erect, strutting even while standing still.
“Amigos, you seem to be doing well in this country. Dressed fit to kill. Sitting pretty. Perhaps I will join you, after you kill this gringo. If you can.”
Juan strained to look over the edge of the cliff. He nodded as he took in the scene. His instinct was correct. The gringo was no fool. He had chosen his fort well. Water, good cover, grass for his horse, and food, if those bulging saddle bags were stocked for travel. He also looked to be very well armed, with a long barreled Winchester rifle in his arms and two white handled pistols stuffed in a wide red cummerbund around his waist, which was itself secured with a military style belt. He also wore a fringed buckskin jacket decorated with what appeared to be Indian beadwork.
Juan noted the dead scattered in front of the man’s fort. A very good shot. His assessment of the situation changed. This was a man to respect, a man he might call friend. An equal. Juan knew one good friend or partner was more valuable than twenty hungry bandits. Two men who could shoot well and were prepared to back each other could be formidable even against great odds.
His last real friend had been Ramon Valencia, but they had been separated during a violent battle with Mexican army troops more than two years before. Ramon had not been seen since. Before Ramon, there had been his mother.
SNAP!
Juan whipped his head to the right, then back down on the sand. Someone was coming. He risked a quick look. An Indian crept along the edge of the canyon some twenty feet away. Juan crouched lower into the shallow draw, his face now half buried in the sand. He could not sneak away without being seen and was certain to be discovered soon. In the heat of battle he could expect no mercy from these wild men. If he had more time to approach them carefully, perhaps. The gringo, on the other hand, was clearly competent but in need of help. With his back covered, he would likely defeat the rest of these men.
Juan peeked over the edge once more. The Indian was engrossed in obtaining a good position from which to fire down on the gringo. The man had but to look behind him to see Juan’s exhausted horse, head held low as it stood spraddle legged in the dry watercourse. Juan’s mind raced with the pounding in his chest. Decision time. But still Juan waited. Perhaps this Indian would end the battle with one shot, in which case Juan should permit him to do so.
The Indian cautiously rose, sneaked a peek, and then popped up to snap a shot over the cliff. He was rebuffed by a barrage of rifle fire from below.
As the Indian rose to fire again, Juan decided. There was no real choice. “Amigo. Turn around, por favor. I do not wish to shoot you in the back.”
The Indian whirled, eyes wide, searching, trying to bring his weapon around, but Juan’s heavy barreled Sharps crashed out its message of death. The 50 caliber bullet struck the hapless Comanche full in the chest. He was propelled several feet backward and fell screaming over the edge of the
cliff.
Juan automatically knelt to perform the sign of the cross. A bullet whined past his ear. Another Comanche stood across the canyon seventy-five yards away, firing rapid but poorly aimed shots at him with a lever action repeater.
Juan dove back to the safety of the small arroyo, reloaded his Sharps, and with one quick look for range and direction, rose and fired. The Indian’s face exploded.
Juan flopped down to catch his breath. Miserable shooting. Aim for the belly and hit the face. This is going to get you killed someday, Juan.
A few seconds later, heart pounding, he scrambled to the edge of the canyon and looked out onto the spread of the river plain below. The remaining riders started their final charge. They apparently believed the firing above had come from their companions. They rode forward from several different directions, screaming, yelling, whooping like maniacs.
Juan settled his sight on the man farthest to his right and fired. The man fell hard from his horse, tried to get up, lay still. Juan fired again, another down. The rest fell to the fire of the gringo, all but two; the leader riding the black stallion and one other whose horse had fallen in front of the gringo.
The leader turned and galloped away, whipping the stallion, zig-zagging in an effort to get out of range. The other, a big hairy chested half-breed with two pistols stuffed in his belt, picked himself up. He glared at the gringo thirty feet away.
Juan quickly reloaded and drew a bead on the man’s chest, but held his fire. What would the gringo do? If smart, he would kill the foolish man without mercy.
The gringo stood slowly erect, leaned his rifle against the boulder protecting his fort, and then stepped forward. He was very tall, over six foot four, maybe even seven feet, big and broad shouldered. The man was certainly two full heads taller than his opponent. The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Then, in a flash, the half breed pulled both of his pistols. One would have been faster, and he should not have had them tucked so securely in his belt. Estupido! But, even then, the man was very fast and Juan assumed for a brief instant that he would win. But the gringo had turned sideways to present a narrow target and dropped smoothly into a crouch, his movements without hitch. His big hands and impossibly long arms were a blur of flame and smoke.
BOOMBOOMBOOM.
Madre de Dios.
Juan was stunned. The gringo’s reflexes were incredible, his draw lightning fast. The fastest Juan had ever seen from a man so large. Before the hairy rider had cleared his pistols from his belt, he was dead, three closely grouped bullet holes in his chest.
Juan stepped back from the edge of the cliff and released his breath in a rush. He looked out to see that the leader of the now dead Comancheros had ridden out of the gringo’s range. He could have continued riding away, but stopped and began yelling, waving his fist in the air. A foolish move.
“Well, gringo, he may be out of your range, but he’s not out of mine.”
Juan adjusted the folding-ladder sight on his long barreled Sharps, estimated distance at four hundred yards and reminded himself to fire low to compensate for the downward trajectory. He dropped to one knee, braced his elbow on the other, took careful aim and squeezed.
The shot echoed across the canyon, bounced off the far valley wall and came back to him several times. His ears rang. It always seemed louder when a shot was deliberate, not in the heat of battle. He lowered the rifle and waved away the smoke. He knew the shot was true, but the rider had not responded to the impact. He stepped off the stallion, stood for a few seconds looking down at his chest, then sagged to the ground like a pair of pants with no one in them.
Juan did not cross himself. He clenched his teeth and swore. The man deserved to die. Now, for the stallion. It was frightened, running in circles around its dead rider. Juan would have to get down quickly before it ran off to the river, but he’d better be careful. No telling how the gringo would react.
Juan was afraid of no man, but was possessed of very good sense. The man below was honorable, brave, and exceedingly dangerous. Juan would not enjoy killing him, but he would have that horse at all cost.
CHAPTER 3
The dead pistolero’s pupils had disappeared far into his forehead, the whites now praying to the bright blue sky. Mobley stood over him, legs wide and stiff. He would have collapsed to the ground himself, his knees were shaking so, but his mind was on another plane. Replaying the duel, wondering if it had actually happened, knowing that it had, but finding it difficult to believe and wondering why he had been so stupid as to stand up and allow the man any kind of chance.
Certainly, had it been up to the dead man, he would have been shot down without mercy. But that is what separates the good from the bad, the honorable from the dishonorable, or was it? What good would it do for the good to be dead? What good would it do for the world to allow men such as this to prowl about with impunity, taking every courtesy as an opportunity to take advantage?
Grandmother Featherheart had told him a thousand times, to be good you must do good. And a man who does not practice goodness and charity to others does not deserve the love of the Lord. Grandfather Angus, of course, would nod at these sentiments and secretly tell Mobley that it was all right to be good to those who deserved it, but to keep close watch on those whose honor he had not seen for himself.
Mobley had tried to learn, but always had trouble figuring whether one person was good and another bad, whether one man had honor and deserved respect, or needed to be eliminated from the human race. The problem was that people did not always follow precise patterns. Some were good most of the time, bad at another. Some were bad most of the time, good at another. How to deal with such folks? Wild Eye Sagan, his law teacher and mentor, had once said laughingly that you should just kill ‘em all and let God sort them out, but Mobley knew he could never bring himself to do such a thing, nor, he suspected, could have Judge Sagan, wild eye or not.
Mobley’s knees felt as if they were made of tule reed, unsubstantial and liable to collapse at any moment, but another jolt of fear fired them into action. There was still danger, someone left who must be dealt with.
Turning, like a wobbly spindle top, he wound his way back to the sparse cover of his boulder and snaked himself around as best he could so he could fire up at the cliff without in turn presenting too much of a target. Whoever had fired from there was still in position to shoot down on him. It might have been one of the Indians who had tried to flank him. Several shots had been fired and one of the Indians had been blown over the cliff. Maybe the other had decided to change sides after their leader shot the wounded man. The only other explanation was that someone had been up there all along. The smoke. He had thought he’d seen smoke at the top of the cliff just before he’d made it to his fort.
Whatever the situation, Mobley could not assume the danger was over. Snatching up his rifle, he quickly reloaded it, and then his pistol. He looked out again to the man he’d killed in the duel. A big, brave, hairy man whose luck had run out. But he shook his head at his own stupidity. Why had he stood up? Why had he given the man a chance to kill him? It didn’t make sense, but like Angus had said many times, nothing ever did make sense in the heat of battle. His blood had been up, his brain on automatic. The man had challenged him. His rifle had been empty. In that brief instant of challenge he’d been unable to do anything else.
He scanned the top of the cliff again, ready to continue the battle. Whoever was up there was a very good shot. The last man killed had been at least four hundred yards away. A Yellow Boy Winchester, such as the ones carried by his attackers, would not have carried that far with any kind of accuracy; more so even than Mobley‘s new 44-40 Winchester. No, the man above had used a large caliber rifle. That would account for the big noise, all the smoke. A Buffalo hunter?
Mobley scanned the rim again. If he could cross to the other side of the canyon, he’d be less of a target.
It was at least fifty yards, but there were boulders he could duck behind as he moved. If
he got to them safely, he might make a run for it. His horse, Meteor, had pulled her rein from the brush where he’d picketed her and drifted near the far wall of the canyon. She was nuzzling a stand of cattails, carefully licking salt from the razor edged stems. She seemed oblivious to everything else.
He took a deep breath. His mouth was dry and still tasted of metal and bitter smoke. He ducked and bounded forward, leaping the last few yards to the first decent boulder twenty yards out. No firing. He looked up. Nothing.
Another deep breath and he was off again. This time the rock was much smaller and he found himself spraddled flat on the ground, face almost in the shallow water of the creek. He would have lapped some up had it not reeked of decayed moss and algae where it flowed around the rock.
One more quick scramble and he found himself panting against the far cliff a few feet from Meteor. She turned toward him, snorted cattail fluff from her nose, and returned to her careful attack on the rushes.
Safe for the moment, Mobley reached for his canteen tied to the saddle horn. He took a long drink. From the saddle bag he pulled a piece of hard candy and popped it into his mouth. Now,—wait. Be ready to run or fight.
* * *
Juan’s horse wobbled in its tracks as he led it down the steps of the escarpment. Prairie grass was not particularly nutritious, and for an animal constantly on the run, it was completely inadequate. Juan dismounted well before he came upon the gringo, to give the horse a rest and appear friendly as he approached. The animal was no doubt grateful, but died anyway. Its front legs gave way first, its rump sagged sideways, and it fell over. A grunt, one last hard blow, and it became still.
Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel Page 4
