“I’m not going with you, and neither are my daughters,” the woman said resolutely.
“That’s all right by me, lady. If you don’t want to go with us, then I don’t see no reason for keeping you alive,” Shardeen said He cocked his pistol and aimed it at the mother.
“No!” Marilou shouted. “Don’t shoot her! She’ll go with you! We’ll all go with you!”
“Well, now, that’s more like it,” Shardeen said. He looked over at the other two men with him. “Whitey, you and Red go out to the barn and saddle three horses. Pick out the best ones you can find. Once we get rid of the women, the horses will belong to us.”
The albino started toward the door but the stocky one with red hair hung back. Red grabbed himself unabashedly. “Hey, Shardeen, can we have us a little fun with ’em before we sell ’em to the Mexicans?”
“No. We get a hundred dollars more if they are virgins,” he said. “I don’t aim to give up two hundred dollars just ’cause you can’t keep your pecker in your pants. If you want to do somethin’, do it with the old woman.”
“All right, don’t make no never mind to me which one I do it with, anyhow. Just as long as I get to do it,” Red replied.
“We ain’t got the time till we’re down in Mexico. Now get out to the barn and help Whitey with them mounts.”
Word of what happened out at the Kincaid Ranch reached town by noon. A neighbor who stopped by discovered the bodies of Hiram Kincaid and his son, Nate. There was no sign of Mrs. Kincaid or the girls.
The sheriff called for a posse and when thirty angry men rode out at about two o’clock that afternoon, it was all Jim, Frank, Barry, Tennessee, Chad, Ken, and Gene could do to keep from going with them.
“You know they aren’t going to find anything,” Jim told the others, as they stood in front of the saloon and watched the party leave. “They’re angry and frustrated and need to do this just to have something to do. But whoever did this is long gone by now.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Barry said. “But if it weren’t for the money we already took to do the job, I’d be out there ridin’ with them, even though they ain’t going to find anybody or anything.”
“Let’s go have another beer,” Tennessee suggested.
When the boys returned to the saloon, they found it nearly empty. Only Jensen, the gambler, had not ridden out with the posse, and he was sitting at a table at the back of the room, dealing hands of poker to himself. Seeing someone come in, Jensen looked up in anticipation of a game, but the smile left his face when he saw that Jim Robison and Frank Ford were with Barry and Tennessee.
Clay Allison arrived about an hour later. He recognized Jim and Frank, and started toward their table with Hector Ortega right behind him.
“Barkeep,” Clay called, “bring me a beer, and bring my amigo a tequila.”
“I don’t have any tequila,” Ned said. “If you want something to drink, go to a cantina. That’s where the Mexes go,” he added, looking pointedly at Ortega. “There’s two or three of ’em in town.”
“This ‘Mex’ is staying with us. Bring him a beer, too.”
Ned hesitated for a moment, obviously not too pleased with serving a Mexican.
“Boys, this is Clay Allison,” Jim said, introducing Clay to the others.
When he mentioned Clay Allison’s name, Ned gulped, and his eyes grew wide. He was galvanized into action. He quickly drew two beers, then brought them over to the table.
“Why didn’t you say you was with Mr. Allison here? Of course, anyone who is with Mr. Allison is welcome at the Border Oasis anytime, be he Mex or American,” the bartender said.
“Where is everyone?” Clay asked, looking around the saloon. “Don’t normally see watering holes this quiet, even in the middle of the day.”
“Someone murdered a man and his young son at their ranch near here,” Jim said. “Nearly the entire town has formed a posse to go after whoever did it.”
“Must’ve been a might popular man to have a posse that large after his killers,” Clay said.
“Yeah, well it’s not just the murders. The man’s wife and daughters are missing, too. The sheriff figures whoever killed the men took the women. Though where he took them, don’t nobody have any idea.”
“He took them to Mexico,” Ortega said in a matter-of-fact manner. He took a swallow of his beer.
“How do you know?”
“The banditos,” Ortega said. “They will pay gold for Anglo women.”
“So what you are saying is, the women are probably still alive?” Chad asked.
“Sí,” Ortega answered. “But it would be better for them if they were not, I think.”
Chapter 9
Shardeen, Red, and Whitey were riding hard to the south, down into Old Mexico. Even though Shardeen didn’t figure anyone would be following them, he intended to make a wide swing, throwing off anyone who might be tracking them. He looked over at his three captives—the two young girls and their mother. Even though they were mounted on their own horses, there was little chance of their getting away, as the horses were being led and the captives themselves were tied and gagged. They weren’t blindfolded, though, and Shardeen enjoyed seeing the terror that was plain on their faces.
Shardeen had given strict orders that neither of the two girls was to be touched because he wanted the extra money they would bring, but he had placed no such restriction on Katie Kincaid, the girls’ mother. Because of her age, her value would not be diminished by anything they did.
Actually, Katie was an exceptionally attractive woman, though beauty itself meant absolutely nothing to Shardeen. Whether he was with a young, lovely girl just coming into maturity or an elderly woman dissipated by a lifetime of ordeal and toil made no difference to him. For Shardeen, rape wasn’t a sexual experience. It was an exercise in power.
More than the sex itself, Shardeen enjoyed inducing fear in women. He had discovered this particular predilection while riding with a group of vigilantes who sold their services as “Indian Regulators.” Anytime there was an Indian disturbance, whether it was one Indian or a group in a war party, the Indian Regulators could sell their services. Hired by those communities too far away from the nearest military outpost to use the regular army, the Indian Regulators would conduct retaliatory raids against the nearest Indian village.
Of course they seldom, if ever, got the Indians who were actually guilty of the crime that had enraged the white settlers, but it didn’t matter. The punishment the Regulators inflicted upon the Indians, innocent or not, gave the ranchers, farmers, and citizens of the nearby towns a sense of retaliation. And sometimes it really did have the effect of causing the Indians to police their own a little better.
One of the benefits that Shardeen particularly enjoyed was having his way with captive Indian women. There was no way any court would come after him for raping an Indian woman. The feeling of total domination and control Shardeen enjoyed in such situations was so powerful that he would have ridden with the Indian Regulators whether he was paid or not.
“Hey, Shardeen,” Red called up to him, interrupting Shardeen’s thoughts. “What do you say we stop for a while? They ain’t no way anyone’s gonna follow us down here. Besides which, we been travelin’ on solid rock for near an hour. They couldn’t track us if they was to try.”
“Let me take a look-see,” Shardeen replied. He halted, then climbed to the top of a pile of huge rocks, holding a collapsed spyglass in his hand. He opened up the telescope and looked back over the way they came. For as far as he could see, he saw nobody. He snapped the glass closed, then came back down from the rocks.
“Did you see anyone?” Red asked.
“No.”
“Then we can stop a while?”
“Yeah, all right,” Shardeen agreed.
“Good,” Red said, getting down from his own horse. He looked toward Katie, then rubbed himself again. “Hey, Shardeen, you said we could have us a little fun with the mama once we was in Mexico, didn�
��t you?”
“That’s what I said,” Shardeen answered.
Katie shivered involuntarily.
“Well, we’re here,” he said. Red walked back to Katie Kincaid, then pulled her down from the horse. “Come on, honey. Me an’ you’s gonna have us a little fun.”
Katie’s eyes revealed her stark panic and loathing, and she looked at Shardeen as if pleading with him to say something.
“So, Shardeen will you be wantin’ a little of the fun after I finish?” Red asked.
“You’re askin’ the wrong question, Red,” Shardeen replied with an evil grin. “What you mean to say is, do I wanna let you have some of the fun after I get finished?”
Not too far away from Shardeen and his captives, Jim, Frank, Barry, Tennessee, Chad, Gene, and Ken were also crossing into northern Mexico. At the moment, they were riding through an area known as the Cumbres de Majalca, which, Hector Ortega explained, meant Summits of Majalca. Though Jim didn’t think of it in such terms, the Cumbres de Majalca were visually stunning, peppered with high mountains and deep canyons, and strewn with many unique rock formations created by eons of erosion. Ortega had chosen this route because of the readily available water, as there were numerous arroyos sending small winding tributaries through the pine, oak, and dry scrub to the Sacramento and Chuvinca Rivers.
They had been on the trail for four days now, and during that time Hector Ortega had spoken only when it was necessary. At night the short, swarthy Mexican would sit quietly, cleaning the brace of Colt .45s he wore high on his gun belt. By day he rode in silence.
That was all right by Jim and the other Americans, who had no wish to be sociable with him. They had resented the fact that Clay Allison appointed Ortega their trail boss, but there was nothing they could do about it. They had not only accepted half the money, they had already spent much of it, so they had no choice but to go along with Clay Allison’s decision.
Jim was thinking about that very thing when, out of the corner of his eye he thought he caught a movement. Just as he was twisting around in his saddle for a closer look, Tennessee slapped his legs against the side of his horse and moved up beside him.
“I make it two men riding alongside us,” Tennessee said.
“Yeah, I thought I saw something,” Jim answered. “Wonder who they are?”
“Suppose we ask our leader?” Tennessee suggested.
“Good idea,” Jim said. He moved up the line. “Ortega,” he called.
Ortega looked back at him, but said nothing.
“We’re being watched.”
Ortega looked around, then shrugged. “I see nothing.”
“Look at the notch in the hill off to our left. In just a moment, they’ll go through there.”
Ortega looked in the direction indicated by Jim, and just as Jim had said, two riders moved quickly through the notch slipping by so expertly that only someone who was specifically looking for them would have noticed.
“Did you see them?” Jim asked.
“Sí.”
“Who do you think they are?”
“Perhaps they are bandidos.”
“Bandidos?”
“Sí. There are many bandidos in the Cumbres de Majalca. We have come from Texas. Maybe they think we are rich.”
“Well, maybe I had better set them straight,” Jim suggested.
Telling the others to continue riding, Jim left the trail and, using a nearby ridgeline for concealment, rode ahead about a thousand yards. He cut over to the gully the two men were following, then dismounted, pulling his Winchester .44-40 from its saddle boot and climbing onto a rocky ledge to wait for them. He jacked a round into the chamber. It would be an easy shot, if he wanted to take it.
He didn’t want to kill them, though. He knew there were times when one had to kill, and when those times came, there was no place for hesitancy. He had killed before, and he would kill again when and if it was required. But to the degree he could, he had made a compromise with grim reality: He killed only when he had no other choice. These two riders had not yet put him in such a position.
They really were quite good, Jim thought. They approached so skillfully that he could barely hear them. Not one word was spoken between them, and they guided their horses in a manner that their hooves would barely disturb the loose rock and shale of the gully. Jim watched them come into view around the bend. He stood up suddenly.
“Hijo de puta!” one of the riders exclaimed in a startled shouted. His horse reared, and his hand started toward his pistol.
“Don’t do it, hombre!” Jim shouted in warning, raising his rifle to his shoulder.
“I would listen to the gringo,” the other man said. Both men were wearing large sombreros, colorful serapes, and crossed bandoliers bristling with shells.
“Your amigo is making sense,” Jim said.
The one whose hand had started toward his pistol stopped, then got his horse under control.
“I don’t know what you hombres are after,” Jim said. “But if it’s money, you are barking up the wrong tree. We’re just out-of-work cowboys.”
“We are not bandidos, senor,” one of the men said.
“I don’t give a damn what you are. I’m not taking any chances. I want you both to drop your guns and belts, then turn around and ride out of here.”
“Senor, there are many very bad men in this country. It is not safe to be without guns,” one of the riders argued.
“You don’t say,” Jim replied. He made an impatient motion with the barrel of his rifle. “Shuck ’em,” he ordered.
Grumbling and protesting their innocence, the two men got rid of their weapons, dropping them onto the rocks with a clatter.
“Now turn your horses around and—” Jim’s words were interrupted by two gunshots. Both Mexicans tumbled from their horses.
“What the hell?” Jim shouted, twisting around in his saddle. He saw a wisp of gunsmoke curling up from a rock about twenty-five yards behind him. He raised his own rifle. “Who’s there?” he shouted.
Hector Ortega raised up from behind the rock, holding his own rifle over his head.
“It is me, senor! Hector Ortega.”
“Ortega! What the hell did you shoot them for?”
Ortega climbed down the side of the large rock until he was just a few feet away from Jim, then he jumped the rest of the way down. “To keep them from shooting you,” he said.
“How the hell were they going to shoot me? Their guns were on the ground.”
Ortega removed the sombreros from the dead men. Reaching down into the crown of each of the large hats, he pulled out two small pistols. He held the pistols up for Jim’s observation.
“They would shoot you with these, I think,” he said.
“I’ll be damned,” Jim replied. “How did you know about those guns?”
“It is a trick many bandidos use,” Ortega said.
“Well, I reckon I’m beholden to you, Ortega,” Jim said, his anger over what he had thought to be senseless killings quickly abating.
Some distance away, a United States marshal and a Texas sheriff were meeting with Capitán Eduardo Bustamante of the Mexican Federales.
“Sí,” Bustamante said in answer to one of the American lawmen’s question. “We know of Senora Kincaid and the two young senoritas who were captured.”
“The thing is, Captain Bustamante,” Sheriff Parker said. “We don’t believe it was Mexicans who captured ’em. We think it was Americans. But we believe these Americans are going to bring ’em down here and try to sell ’em to one of the bandit gangs in the hills.”
“We will be most vigilant,” Bustamante promised.
“Does such a thing really happen?” Marshal Gibbons asked. “What I mean is, will the Mexican bandits actually pay for American women?”
“Sí, senor,” Bustamante answered. “If they are young and innocent, they are worth much money in gold.”
“Damn. That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard of,” Gibbons said w
ith a sneer. “I mean, how can you Mexicans do such a thing?”
Bustamante flashed Gibbons a look of disdain. “Senor Gibbons, the Mexicans pay money for the unfortunate senoritas—this is true. But it is also true that it is the Americanos who raid the homes, kill the men and capture the senoritas.”
“Bustamante is right, Tom,” Sheriff Parker said. “We got no right to be throwin’ stones down here till we clean up our own house.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Gibbons said. “I apologize, Captain. It’s just that, well, I want those girls back safely. Their mama, too, if she is still alive. But what I want more than anything are the American sons of bitches who would do such a thing to their own people.”
Bustamante smiled broadly. “Perhaps I will soon have good news for you,” he said. “We have learned of a group of Americans traveling south along the Chihuahua Trail.”
“You think they might be the ones we are looking for?”
“That we do not know,” Bustamante said. “There are no women traveling with them, but we do know that they crossed the border to come into our country at about the same time the women were taken. Perhaps they have left the women somewhere under guard, while they go into the montañas to find the evil ones so they can do their business.”
“You have reports on such men? Where are they now?” Gibbons asked. “I wouldn’t want them to get away.”
“Do not worry, senor. They will not get away. The Americans are riding through the Cumbres de Majalca now. But Teniente Montoya and Teniente Arino, two of my best men, are keeping a close eye on them.”
Chapter 10
It was two days later when Chad saw the poster nailed to a tree. In bold, capital letters at the top of the poster were the words:MUERTO O VIVO!
Just beneath the words was a line drawing of a man’s face. The face was rather round with heavily browed eyes and a large mustache. In truth, the drawing looked like half the Mexicans Chad had seen since they crossed into Mexico. It wasn’t the face that attracted Chad’s attention, nor the words, none of which Chad could understand. It was the name beneath the picture that Chad saw: HECTOR ORTEGA
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