Ride for Vengeance

by William W. Johnstone

  Alcazarrio, he thought. The bandidos were out there, still moving south, heading for Villa Rojo and the fateful rendezvous that would take place there.

  And as Sam gazed out into the hazy miles that lay before him, he couldn’t help but wonder about Sandy Paxton and the other prisoners. Were they still alive? Were they still unharmed?

  Only time would tell.

  Chapter 21

  Despite the orders Alcazarrio had given, Maggie didn’t really believe that the bandidos would leave her and Rebecca alone during the night. But that was what happened, and when they crawled out of their blanket rolls early the next morning, they were stiff and sore from the long ride but otherwise unharmed.

  The sun was not up yet, but there was enough gray, predawn light in the air for Maggie to be able to make out the features of the stocky young man who came over to the prisoners and brought them tortillas for their meager breakfast. He had a round face and a drooping mustache, and there was something familiar about him. Maggie frowned as she looked at him and tried to figure out what it was.

  After a moment, she got it. “I know you,” she said as he handed her one of the tortillas. “You’re the man Seymour—Marshal Standish—helped when Cole Halliday was harassing you.”

  It was true. The man was wearing better clothes now, instead of the farmer’s garb he had sported in Sweet Apple, but he was undeniably the same man.

  He looked away, refusing to meet Maggie’s eyes. “Take the food, Señorita,” he muttered.

  She cast her mind back over the things Seymour had said about the incident, and dredged up the man’s name from her memory. “You’re called Hector.”

  He thrust tortillas into the hands of the other prisoners and then stalked off. Maggie could tell that he wasn’t angry, though.

  It was more like he was embarrassed.

  She filed that away in her mind. She didn’t delude herself into thinking that the young man might help them; he was obviously a loyal member of Alcazarrio’s band. But it couldn’t hurt to have one of the bandidos feeling a little bad about what was going on.

  Also, this explained how Alcazarrio had known when to attack. The whole settlement had been buzzing about the hearing that Judge Clark was going to hold to decide the dispute between Shad Colton and Esau Paxton. The time and place of that hearing had been common knowledge, and so was the fact that Colton’s and Paxton’s families would be in town with them. Alcazarrio must have sent Hector into Sweet Apple to spy for him, and the young man had gone back and told the bandit chieftain about the hearing. It all made sense now.

  But figuring that out didn’t help her situation one bit, Maggie told herself as she gnawed on the tortilla. It didn’t really matter how she had come to be taken prisoner. What was important was that she was in the hands of a gang of ruthless, hardened outlaws.

  Shortly after that, the group mounted up and resumed their southward journey. Rebecca Jimmerson had calmed down and was no longer crying and fighting. Either she had found some inner strength somewhere, or else she was just resigned to her fate, whatever it might be. Jessie Paxton was as defiant as ever, and Sandy was calm, staying close to her best friend and utilizing an occasional quiet word of advice to keep Jessie from pushing their captors too far.

  Maggie rode with Esteban again. Evidently, since he was the one who had snatched her up during the raid, he was claiming her as his own, at least until he tired of her. He was sullen today, and the smell of tequila that wafted from him told Maggie that he was probably hungover. That was fine with her, because he simply held her in front of him on the horse and didn’t paw her as he had the day before.

  Alcazarrio kept the band moving at a fast pace all day. That night they camped again, and once again the prisoners were guarded closely but otherwise left alone. The next day, Rebecca was more withdrawn than ever, and Maggie began to worry about her mental state. She wasn’t sure why she cared; she didn’t like Rebecca at all, as their brawl back in Sweet Apple had demonstrated. But things were a little different now. This ordeal they were sharing couldn’t help but make Maggie sympathize a little with the young woman from New Jersey.

  That afternoon, they reached a village in the foothills of the mountains. When Maggie spotted the red tile roofs of the buildings in the distance, for a moment hope flared inside her. Maybe someone there would help them.

  But then she realized how unlikely that was. The inhabitants of the village would be afraid of Alcazarrio. The self-styled revolutionary general had this whole region under his thumb. None of the common people would dare to cross him.

  And then as the riders drew closer, she realized it was all moot anyway. The village was deserted, doors hanging open and swinging back and forth on rotting hinges in the wind.

  “Villa Rojo,” Alcazarrio announced. “Our new home. Once we have the ransom, we will buy enough guns and supplies so that men will flock here to join our army from all over Mexico. Our fame will spread, and this humble village will be the birthplace of a new day for our land! The beginning of the end for El Presidente! Freedom and liberty!”

  Noble words, Maggie thought, but they meant nothing. They were a mere smoke screen for Alcazarrio’s naked lust for wealth and power. He was a bandit at heart and would never be more than a mere bandido, no matter how much high-flown rhetoric he spewed out to his men.

  They knew it, too, because most of them were just like him. Maggie had seen it all before. Those who spoke the loudest about helping the common man were the greediest when it came to increasing their own power. Even if Alcazarrio succeeded in overthrowing Diaz, nothing would change. Not for the farmer and the shopkeeper and the wagon driver. There would just be a different group of hogs gorging themselves at the trough of power.

  She put those thoughts out of her head. They meant nothing now. She had to concentrate on staying alive until someone came for her . . . Seymour, and Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves. They would not turn their backs on the captives. Somehow they would thwart Alcazarrio’s plans.

  Now, as the group entered the deserted village of Villa Rojo, Jessie Colton said to Alcazarrio, “You’re crazy if you think our fathers are going to pay you one red cent for letting us go. You made the worst mistake of your life when you grabbed us, mister.”

  Alcazarrio laughed. “You had better hope you are wrong about that, Señorita. Because if your fathers refuse to pay, then they will be making the worst mistake of your lives . . . what little remains of them.”

  Hector Gallindo watched as the four young women were taken into one of the old buildings. Guards were posted at both doors and all of the windows to make sure that none of them tried to get away. He wished that there was something he could do for them, some way to reassure them that they would be all right.

  But of course, there wasn’t, because in truth he didn’t know if they would be all right. Señorita O’Ryan and the other one—Hector wasn’t sure of her name—were lucky that they had not been assaulted so far. They had the strong-willed Señorita Paxton to thank for that. But their good fortune would only last so long. Already, many of the men were complaining that they had not been allowed to pleasure themselves with the women. Eventually, the general would have to give in or face a rebellion among his own forces.

  Hector wished that the extra two prisoners had not been taken during the raid, and he knew from conversations he had overheard between Alcazarrio and Florio Cruz that the general felt the same way. The women were an added complication, an unwanted distraction. But before the attack on Sweet Apple, Alcazarrio had neglected to order his men not to take any prisoners except the two ranchers’ daughters. Esteban had given in to impulse when he snatched Miss O’Ryan, and Raoul had done likewise when he grabbed up the young woman with hair the color of honey. Now the situation had to be dealt with as best it could.

  Hector told himself that he would stay near the building where the prisoners were being held. If things began to get out of hand, perhaps he could put a stop to them. He wasn’t sure if he would dare ste
p in, but he liked to believe that he would.

  Late that afternoon, a couple of revolutionaries galloped into Villa Rojo and reined their mounts to a halt in front of the cantina that Alcazarrio had taken over as his headquarters. Hector saw them and recognized them as two of the men Alcazarrio had left behind to watch their back trail and make sure the gringos were coming with the ransom. The men dismounted and hurried into the building. After a moment, Hector walked over there to see if he could find out what was going on.

  He stopped just outside the door where he could hear the men making their report to Alcazarrio. Hector felt his pulse quicken as one of them said, “The three chests are heavy. That much we could tell when they lifted them down from the mules carrying them each time they camped.”

  Alcazarrio grunted and said, “Bueno! Gold is heavy. How many of the gringos are there?”

  “Fourteen, General. We came close enough to count them.”

  “They did not see you?” Alcazarrio snapped.

  “No, General. We were very careful.”

  “Your other two amigos are still out there?”

  “Sí. They will warn us when the gringos draw close to Villa Rojo, but you said you wanted to know how many of them there are, and whether or not they had brought the ransom with them.”

  “You have done well, my friends.” Hector heard the sound of Alcazarrio slapping the men on the back. “You deserve a drink for your hard work.”

  “And a woman?” one of the men asked hopefully.

  For a moment Alcazarrio didn’t answer, and Hector found himself holding his breath as the general hesitated. But then Alcazarrio said, “Not yet. But soon, I promise you. After the ransom is ours. After we have taken the money and killed the gringos, then all four of the prisoners will be turned over to the men.”

  Hector had expected no less, but still the blood seemed to grow cold in his veins. Treachery came naturally to Alcazarrio, he supposed. The man was a general and fought in a noble cause, but yet he had human failings like everyone else. He could not bring himself to deal honorably with the hated gringos.

  Normally, that would not have bothered Hector, because he hated the gringos, too. Or at least he had before the marshal in Sweet Apple had stepped in to help a Mexican farmer who was unknown to him, at the risk of his own life. Those two gunmen, the ones called Bodine and Two Wolves, would have defended him, too, if they needed to. Hector had sensed that about them, that they were good men who would not see anyone who was innocent or helpless be harmed if there was anything they could do to stop it.

  Why had these things happened to confuse him so? It should have been so simple. He followed his general against all enemies. That was how it was supposed to be. Hector had no need for doubts.

  But need them or not, they had begun to gnaw at his brain like rats. He walked slowly back toward the building where the prisoners were held, and on the way he pondered many things.

  Following the encounter with the two bandits who had tried to bluff their way into the possession of the chests they believed to be full of gold, the group headed by Matt Bodine didn’t run into any more trouble the rest of that day.

  Colton and Paxton hadn’t particularly wanted to take the time and trouble to bury the two dead men, but Matt had insisted. Sure, they’d been thieves and their hands were probably stained with the blood of many innocents, but Matt couldn’t be sure of that and preferred to err on the side of laying them to rest properly.

  The posse expected to arrive at Villa Rojo late the next day, so there was an air of anticipation about the camp as the men rose that morning. They were deep in Mexico now, and as Gil Cochran ran a hand over his beard-stubbled jaw, he said, “I sure hope that pard of yours and the rest of the posse are still back there, Bodine. If they ain’t, we’ll be bad outnumbered when we go to waltzin’ into Alcazarrio’s stronghold.”

  “Don’t worry about Sam and Seymour and the others,” Matt said. “They’ll be there when we need them.”

  He didn’t know what was going on a few miles to the north, however. If he had known, he might not have been quite so confident.

  Sam and the larger group had made camp at the base of a rocky butte that jutted up from the plain. As they were getting ready to break camp, one of the men hurried over to where Sam and Seymour were saddling their horses and said, “Somebody’s comin’, Marshal. Somebody afoot. Looks like it might be a woman.”

  Sam and Seymour looked at each other and frowned. Sam knew that a woman shouldn’t be wandering around by herself on foot in this wasteland, and even a relative newcomer like Seymour could figure out the same thing without much trouble. “We’d better see what this is all about,” Sam said.

  As they walked across the camp, Cornelius Standish called, “What’s going on, Seymour? Trouble?”

  “I don’t know, Uncle Cornelius,” Seymour answered over his shoulder. “But I intend to find out.”

  Now that Sam was convinced Standish and the other three Easterners were behind the attempts on Seymour’s life, for whatever reason, he had been keeping a close eye on the men. They hadn’t done anything suspicious, and even though they were cranky and sore from riding, they hadn’t slowed the posse down any. They were biding their time, Sam thought, waiting for just the right moment to try to kill Seymour again—and Sam was equally determined not to let that happen.

  Right now, though, he wasn’t as concerned about Standish and the others as he was about whatever new trouble might be headed their way. Because his instincts told him this wasn’t going to be anything good.

  Sam tipped his hat back, stared out across the flat, semiarid, brush-dotted land, and saw the figure stumbling toward the butte. Beside him, Seymour exclaimed, “Good Lord! It is a woman!”

  “Or somebody in woman’s clothes anyway,” Sam said. “It could be a trick, Seymour. Stay here.”

  He walked forward, motioning for Seymour to stay where he was. Seymour started to follow, then stopped and did as Sam told him. He drew his gun.

  So did Sam, as he approached the figure. As he drew closer, he saw that the stranger really was a woman. The shape under the ragged, low-cut blouse and long skirt was definitely female. She had long black hair that hung most of the way down her back. Her eyes were downcast, and she didn’t seem to see Sam until only a few yards separated them. Then she suddenly cried out in fear and fell to her knees, begging him in Spanish not to kill her.

  “Don’t be afraid, Señorita,” Sam said. “I’m a friend. I’m not going to hurt you. Are you alone?”

  He had to ask the question twice before it penetrated her fear. Then she jerked her head in a nod and fluttered a hand in the direction she had come from—west—as she said, “Sí, my family is back there, at my father’s rancho . . . where the Apaches are!”

  Sam’s jaw tightened as a chill went through him. The Apaches were widely feared down here. They had been run out of West Texas, but they had found new prey on the far-flung ranches of the Mexican settlers.

  He could see now that the girl was young, no more than fifteen or sixteen. Her feet were bare and covered with scratches from running through the brush, as were her arms. Sam holstered his gun, confident now that this was no trick, and stepped forward to help her to her feet.

  She flinched away from his touch at first. Staring up into his face, she said, “You are indio.”

  “Half,” Sam said. “But my people are the Cheyenne, who live far from here and are not the enemies of your people, Señorita. I am not an Apache.”

  His kindly voice and his white man’s clothes must have convinced her. She let him help her up, and then he led her toward the posse’s camp.

  “Somebody bring a canteen!” he called. “I’ll bet this girl is mighty thirsty.”

  One of the men hurried over with a canteen. Sam set the girl down on a rock, gave her the canteen, and let her drink for a moment before he eased it away from her mouth. He didn’t want her to guzzle down so much water that it made her sick.

  “Now,” h
e said as the men gathered around, “what’s this about the Apaches being at your family’s ranch?”

  She nodded shakily. “They attacked . . . early this morning, before dawn. We have a tunnel . . . that leads from the house to an arroyo . . . there is much brush in the arroyo, and someone crawling through it cannot easily be seen. I didn’t want to go, but my father told me I must. He said perhaps I could find help.” She looked around at the members of the posse, who were listening with great interest to her story, those who understood Spanish anyway. “And now I have.”

  “What’s she saying?” Seymour asked Sam, who had a grim expression on his face.

  “Her family’s ranch was attacked by Apaches early this morning, before sunup,” he explained. “She got away and has been looking for help.”

  “And fate led her to us.” Seymour nodded. “If she can show us where the ranch is, we can send those Apaches packing in short order.”

  “It may not be that easy, Seymour,” Sam warned. “Anyway, several hours have gone by since the attack. It’s possible the Apaches have overrun the place and killed everybody on it by now.”

  Seymour’s eyes widened. “Good heavens! What a horrible prospect!”

  Sam nodded and turned back to the girl. “How many fighting men on your ranch?” he asked in her native tongue.

  She thought about it for a moment, then said, “Eleven. And several women who will fight, including my mother.”

  “Were they forted up good?”

  She nodded. “Sí. Our house is sturdy, with thick adobe walls and rifle slits.”

  “Food? Water? Ammunition?”

  Again she nodded. “My father has fought the Indians before. He says that a wise man is always prepared for calamity.”