Ride for Vengeance

by William W. Johnstone

  “You mean hang you?” Sam said.

  Seymour nodded. “That’s right.” Quickly, he filled them in on the details of the latest attempt on his life, then concluded by saying, “The sheer good fortune of that beam breaking is the only reason I’m not dead now.”

  Maggie shuddered in his embrace.

  “Did you see the hombres who tried to give you a necktie party?” Matt asked.

  Seymour shook his head. “No, I never got a good look at them. But there were two of them, I’m certain of that, which makes me think it was probably the same two men who tried to kill me before.”

  “More than likely,” Matt agreed. “Unless there are more folks who want you dead than we know about.”

  Maggie stepped back at last and looked up at Seymour. “Why?” she asked. “Why would anyone want to hurt you?”

  He shrugged. “A lawman makes enemies. It’s inevitable, I suppose.”

  “But there’s nobody around here who holds a real grudge against you. You haven’t—”

  Seymour smiled when Maggie stopped short. “Haven’t really done anything except fight that one battle against Mallory’s gang and then Alcazarrio’s bandits? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “Oh, Seymour, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “They’re not hurt,” he assured her. “You’re absolutely right, Maggie. Mallory’s gang was wiped out, the survivors from Alcazarrio’s band retreated back across the Rio Grande, and I haven’t done anything else as marshal except help break up a few fights and put a drunk or two in jail for the night. That’s hardly enough to warrant these repeated attempts on my life.”

  “That’s the way we see it, too,” Sam said.

  “What did you do after you ran those varmints off?” Matt asked.

  “Came back right here,” Seymour rasped. “I loaded a rifle and sat down to wait. I’m not sure what I was waiting for, but I wanted to be ready.”

  With a look of concern, Maggie said, “You sound like it hurts you to talk.”

  He nodded. “It does, a little. My throat is rather bruised.”

  “Why don’t you go back to the hotel and take it easy for a while?” Matt suggested. “Miss O’Ryan can bring you some supper—”

  “Yes,” Maggie said. “Some nice hot soup to soothe your throat. I’d be happy to do that.”

  Seymour put a hand on her shoulder and said, “I’d like that. Thank you.” He looked at Matt and Sam. “But I have my duties as marshal to think about . . .”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Sam said. “Matt and I will keep an eye on things.”

  “And have a look at that old barn where those fellas jumped you,” Matt added. “Never can tell when we might find something that’ll tell us who they were.”

  Seymour thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “All right, I suppose that makes sense. After starting to repair my reputation in this town, though, I don’t want to do anything to make people think I’m acting cowardly. I don’t want them to start calling me Seymour the Lily-Livered again.”

  Maggie bristled with anger. “Anyone who says that around me will be sorry,” she declared.

  “Anyway, recovering from an attack isn’t cowardly,” Sam said.

  “And it’s not every day a fella gets lynched and lives through it,” Matt added with a smile. “I reckon folks will understand if you take it easy for a little while.”

  “Come on,” Sam said. “We’ll walk over there with you, just to make sure nothing else happens.”

  Maggie linked her arm with Seymour’s. “I’m coming, too. As soon as I know you’re safe, I’ll go fix that soup.”

  The four of them left the marshal’s office together. Matt walked just ahead of Seymour and Maggie, with Sam just behind the couple. Townspeople stopped them along the way to inquire about Seymour’s health and the incident that had almost cost him his life. Their concern seemed genuine.

  When they entered the hotel lobby, they found Cornelius Standish waiting there, pacing anxiously. He turned toward them and said, “There you are, Seymour! What are these rumors I hear about someone trying to kill you again?”

  “I’m afraid they’re true, Uncle Cornelius,” Seymour said. He turned his head and craned his neck a little so that the bruises on his throat were more visible. “They dropped a noose around my neck and tried to hang me.”

  “Dear God! What sort of uncivilized place is this? Perhaps you should come back to New Jersey with me—”

  “No,” Seymour said, not waiting for his uncle to finish the suggestion. “I’m not going back. Sweet Apple is my home now, and I’m going to stay here.”

  “But you’re going to get killed!”

  “I’ll just have to run that risk,” Seymour said. “Besides, there are dangers back in New Jersey, too. I . . . I could get run over by a runaway milk wagon, or something like that.”

  “Well, I suppose your mind is made up,” Standish said, scowling.

  “Indeed it is.” Seymour smiled. “But I appreciate your concern, Uncle Cornelius. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know you cared that much.”

  “Of course I care what happens to you! You’re family after all, Seymour.”

  “I’m glad to hear you feel that way. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . I’m going to go upstairs and rest a bit.”

  “You go right ahead,” Standish told him. “If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

  “Certainly.”

  Seymour and Maggie went upstairs, trailed by Matt and Sam. The blood brothers didn’t turn back until Seymour was safely in his room—with the door open, as he insisted since Maggie was there.

  “I won’t do anything to compromise your reputation,” he told her.

  Cornelius Standish was nowhere in sight when Matt and Sam went back downstairs. “Nice fella for an Eastern dude, that Standish,” Matt commented.

  “You think so?” Sam said.

  “He was mighty worried about Seymour.”

  Sam nodded and said, “Uh-huh,” as if he didn’t quite believe it.

  Matt looked over at his blood brother as they reached the boardwalk. “You’re not still thinkin’ that Standish and those new dry-goods salesmen o’ his might’ve had something to do with those attempts on Seymour’s life, are you?”

  “There’s no proof of it so far,” Sam admitted. “But I still find it a little coincidental that as soon as they show up in town, somebody starts trying to kill Seymour.”

  “Cole Halliday shot the hell out of Seymour’s hat the day he got to Sweet Apple.”

  “Yes, but shooting somebody’s hat is a lot different than shooting him.”

  Matt couldn’t argue with that statement. And since he trusted Sam’s instincts, he thought maybe it would be a good idea to start keeping a closer eye on Seymour’s uncle and those other three dudes from back East.

  They walked down the street to the old barn where the latest attack on Seymour had taken place. Inside, they found the broken beam and the rope, just as Seymour had described. Sam picked up the rope, looked at it closely, ran its rough length through his fingers.

  “Nothing unusual about it,” he said. “You could buy a rope like this in any general store in town. It might have even been lying around in here, left behind by whoever was the last one to use this barn.”

  The front and rear doors were both open, letting in quite a bit of light, but Matt scratched a match into life anyway, just to increase the illumination as he hunkered on his heels and studied the ground. He pointed to some marks in the dust and said, “Those look more like shoe prints than boot prints to me.”

  Sam joined him and frowned in concentration. “I think you’re right,” he said. “That’s something else pointing to Standish and those men who work for him.”

  “They’re not the only ones in Sweet Apple who wear shoes instead of boots,” Matt said. “Fellas who clerk in the stores and men like Delacroix who own businesses do, too. Anybody who doesn’t ride a horse very often, or
at all, is liable to wear shoes.”

  Sam nodded. “That’s true. But if we’re talking about a preponderance of the evidence—”

  “You’re the one usin’ highfalutin college words, not me.”

  “I’m just saying that after a while, things start to pile up and point in a certain direction.”

  Matt scratched his jaw. “How do you think Seymour’s gonna react if you go to him and tell him you think his uncle is the one tryin’ to kill him?”

  “He’s not going to believe me,” Sam answered without hesitation.

  “That’s right. So I reckon we’d better keep lookin’ until we’re sure.”

  “Well, I know one thing,” Sam said as the blood brothers straightened and Matt ground out the match under his boot heel. “I’m going to be watching Cornelius Standish. The next time trouble strikes, I plan to see where it’s coming from.”

  That was a good idea, Matt thought.

  Problem was, where he and Sam were concerned, trouble had a history of sometimes coming from two or three different directions at once.

  The men reached the river in the dusk. They reined their horses to a stop on a sandstone bluff overlooking the twisting course of the stream. The western sky was a garish red from the sun that had set a short time earlier, and the water reflected that color so that the Rio Bravo looked like a river of blood as it meandered its way on down toward the Gulf of Mexico.

  To the north, on the other side of the river, stretched the Texas plains, their level sweep broken here and there by mesas and rocky hills and ranges of small mountains blunted and worn down by untold millennia of sun and wind and occasional drenching rain. It was a harsh land, West Texas, rugged and starkly beautiful at first. After a while, the beauty faded and it was just ugly.

  But as Hector Gallindo sat on his horse and gazed across at Texas in the fading light, he felt excitement stirring within him. Soon, and for the first time in his life, he would be leaving his native Mexico. That was something to look forward to, even though it would be dangerous. A week ago, he had been nothing but a simple farmer.

  Now he was a revolutionary!

  And that was very exciting, too.

  For several days, the group had ridden northward with Diego Alcazarrio and Florio Cruz at its head. Alcazarrio had visited several other villages besides the one where Hector lived, and at each place he had recruited more men for his band of freedom fighters, promising the young men who joined him that they would help him strike a mortal blow against the wicked dictator, Diaz. Hector believed him. He knew that some people considered Alcazarrio’s men to be nothing more than bandits, but Hector knew that wasn’t true. They served a noble cause.

  Of course, it was a bit puzzling why they were going north, when El Presidente Diaz was in Mexico City, far to the south, but Hector didn’t trouble himself over that. He knew that their leader had to have a brilliant plan, and sooner or later Alcazarrio would explain it. Until then, Hector was content to follow orders.

  It was better than trying to scratch out a living from the rocky soil of his farm, after all. Better than listening to his mother’s complaints and seeing the weary despair on the lined face of his father.

  Now, when the men had come as far north as they could without leaving Mexico, Alcazarrio turned his horse around so that he could face them as he addressed them.

  “We will make camp here. No fires. Even though the closest settlement on the Texas side of the river is five miles away, we do not want any gringos discovering that we are here.”

  That made sense to Hector. The gringos were evil; everyone knew that. Perhaps not quite as evil as El Presidente, who oppressed his own people, but still, it was best for Alcazarrio’s men not to announce their presence this close to the border, Hector thought.

  Following Alcazarrio’s orders, the men pulled back a little, so that their camp was located at the base of the bluff away from the river, where they would not be easily spotted. Grass was sparse, but enough for the horses. As night settled down, the men made a meager meal on tortillas and beans.

  Hector made sure his horse had been attended to before he worried about caring for himself. He still found it hard to believe that he had a horse and a rifle when, only a few weeks earlier, the only things he truly owned were the clothes on his back and the blisters on his hands. Of course, he supposed that the horse and the rifle actually belonged to Diego Alcazarrio, who had provided them for Hector’s use, but still . . . He felt like a rich man compared to his previous existence. Was it any wonder he had thought several times that he would die for Diego Alcazarrio if he was called upon to do so?

  He hunkered on his heels and began to munch on a tortilla, but he had barely started eating when a lean shadow fell over him. Hector looked up and saw Florio Cruz standing there.

  “Diego wants to see you.”

  The words surprised Hector even more than the fact that Florio Cruz, Alcazarrio’s second in command, had sought him out. So far during the time that Hector had belonged to this band of revolutionaries, neither Alcazarrio nor Cruz had ever spoken directly to him. And now Alcazarrio wanted to meet with him personally. It was a great honor, an overwhelming honor.

  Hector realized he was gaping. He snapped his mouth shut and scrambled to his feet. “Of course, Señor Cruz. It will be my great pleasure. More than a pleasure. An honor, a great honor—”

  Cruz’s curt gesture told Hector to be silent and follow.

  He did so, and Cruz led him to an outcropping of rock where Diego Alcazarrio sat cross-legged on the ground with his back against the stone. He had a bottle in his hand.

  “Here he is,” Cruz said. “The one you wanted to see.”

  Alcazarrio looked up at Hector. “You are Gallindo?” he asked, even though Cruz had already pretty much said that.

  “Sí, General,” Hector said. He didn’t know if Alcazarrio preferred to be addressed in that fashion, but he didn’t think it would hurt anything to do so.

  Then, wonder of wonders, Alcazarrio extended the bottle toward him and said, “Sit. Have a drink with me.”

  Hector sat down on the ground, and his hand shook a little as he reached for the bottle. He hoped that Alcazarrio didn’t notice. He took the bottle, tipped it to his mouth, and tried not to gag on the fiery tequila that burned its way down his throat. It was better than the pulque made by the old men in his village.

  Alcazarrio took the bottle back and did not offer again, but that didn’t matter. Hector had had a drink with the great revolutionary leader. He would never forget this moment.

  “I have asked around about you, Gallindo,” Alcazarrio said. “I am told that you speak the gringos’ tongue.”

  Hector bobbed his head in a nod. “Sí, General. When I was a boy, I helped the priest in our village. He was a gringo, and he taught me to speak English.”

  Florio Cruz crossed his arms over his narrow chest and scowled. “What was a gringo priest doing in a Mexican village?” he asked.

  Hector shook his head. “I do not know for sure, Señor Cruz. But he was a man with great sadness in him, and a fondness for the pulque made by the old men in the village. I believe he had some dark secret in his past and wished to get as far away from it as he could.”

  “A sad, drunken priest!” Alcazarrio said with a laugh. “One of many such in the world, eh? What is important is that he taught you to speak the tongue of the hated gringos. Do you still understand it, Gallindo?”

  Again, Hector nodded eagerly. “Sí, General. Though I have not spoken the words much since I was a child, I still understand them when I hear them. With practice, I am sure I would understand even better.”

  “You’ll get your practice,” Alcazarrio said, then took another swig of the liquor. “You’re going across the river.”

  Hector swallowed. “Into Texas, General?”

  “That’s right. To the settlement called Sweet Apple. There you will watch and listen, pretending to be nothing more than a simple Mexican peasant.”

  He
was nothing more than a simple Mexican peasant, Hector thought. Then he quickly corrected himself. He was much more than that now.

  He was one of Diego Alcazarrio’s soldiers of the revolución.

  “There are things I need to know,” Alcazarrio went on, “and you will find them out for me, Gallindo. Then you will return here and tell me these things.”

  “Of course, General.” Hector hesitated, but he had to ask the question. “But General . . . how will I know what it is I need to find out?”

  “I will tell you.” Alcazarrio chuckled. “Lean closer, boy. Consider yourself fortunate. Tonight you will be made privy to the plans of the great Diego Alcazarrio. Tonight you will learn of the vengeance that will soon strike at the very hearts of those damned Texans!”

  Chapter 13

  The night passed quietly in Sweet Apple, without even a fight in the Black Bull or one of the other saloons for Matt and Sam to break up. After spending the night in the marshal’s office, they went to the hotel the next morning to check on Seymour.

  He opened the door of his room with a gun in his hand, even though Sam had called through the panel after knocking on it to let him know who they were. Matt grinned at him and said, “Now you’re gettin’ smart. Always figure that somebody’s out to kill you, and you’re liable to live longer.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a fit way for a man to live,” Seymour said as he holstered the revolver.

  “Maybe not, but you chose it when you buckled on that gunbelt and pinned that badge to your vest.”

  Seymour nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  “Any problems last night?” Sam asked.

  “None whatsoever.”

  “How was that soup Miss O’Ryan fixed for you?” Matt asked, still grinning.

  Seymour’s face got pink as he replied, “It was, ah, excellent. Very soothing for the throat.”

  “And I’ll bet the company wasn’t bad either,” Matt said, nudging Seymour in the ribs with an elbow.