Lawless Land

by Dusty Richards

  A small whimper drew Justine’s eyes to the other bed in the room. The young Indian girl Angela lay on her side on the bed. She jerked convulsively in her sleep and put out a hand as if warding off an attacker. Before dawn, that young Jimmy had awakened Justine when he roughly returned the girl to the room. No doubt Angela was reliving an experience similar to her own. Justine sighed in sympathy. The poor Indian girl possibly experienced a more terrifying situation. She was the plaything of the other men: the pockfaced Jimmy, the swarthy Sanchez, Sarge, and the tall cowboy, all of whom no doubt had been free to use the girl as they wished.

  Pained by the girl’s discomfort, she watched her twist in the bed. Justine rose and moved to her side. Gently she tried to rouse her.

  Angela jerked at the touch of her hand; her eyes flew open, her dark face twisted with fear. Justine smiled at her, wishing the girl had a better command of English since her own Spanish was lamentable.

  Angela scrambled up in bed and backed against the headboard, her legs tucked beneath her. Like a trapped animal, she looked quickly around the room. The scent of flowers floated through the open window on a soft breeze. Justine breathed in deeply. Smelling the presence of blossoms in this outlaw’s hideout was a bitter irony. She glanced at Angela. The girl cried silently, the tears streaking her olive skin. Justine, although sympathetic, envied the girl’s ability to release some of her emotions in tears. Her own eyes felt dry as the desert and gritty like they were coated with coarse sand. Her lips were cracked and dried. Lamas must have drained every ounce of moisture from her body. She flicked her tongue across her lips, then she moved to the pottery olla that hung by the window.

  Beads of moisture gathered around the base of the hanging water jug. Justine used the gourd that was placed on the washstand and dipped some of the cool water into it. After drinking her fill, she tilted the olla and refilled the gourd, then carried it across the room to the girl.

  “Agua,” she said softly, inviting Angela to drink.

  The girl took the vessel hesitantly, keeping her eyes on Justine’s face. She drank deeply, then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “Muchas gracias.”

  “De nada,” Justine said, using her limited knowledge of Spanish. But Angela took the words as an indication that Justine spoke the language. She opened her mouth and released a stream of excitable, unintelligible Spanish.

  “No comprendo.” Shaking her head, Justine sighed in disappointment. Angela gave up and smiled as if to say, We are in this together; somehow we will manage.”

  Justine’s chest tightened with pent-up emotions. How would they manage? Everything appeared so hopeless to her.

  Saturday night, Sam T. attended the wedding of Buddy and Miss VanKirk. It proved to be a festive occasion at the Chino Valley Schoolhouse. After the short ceremony, everyone danced in the packed building. Several couples from Fort Whipple were in attendance. Sam T. searched the crowd for Julia’s face.

  After properly introducing himself to a lieutenant and his wife Flora, he danced with the officer’s wife. While they waltzed to the fiddler, he led the young woman into a tactfully phrased conversation about Julia, the woman he’d met on the train. Flora had met Julia upon her arrival at Fort Whipple, but did not know her well. She also said Julia’s husband was still at Fort Apache across the territory to the east. That was enough; he didn’t dare pursue the matter, feeling a little empty that the girl never came out that night with the other officers and their wives. After the set, Sam T. bragged on Flora’s skilled footwork, thanked her for dancing with him and returned her to her husband.

  It was early the next morning in Prescott when he waited to board the coach to Tucson. His war bag loaded in the boot, he and the major stood at the side by themselves and discussed the last details.

  “Jesus should be there to greet you in Tucson. I sent a telegram to his girlfriend. Her name’s Tia Rubio. If you can’t find him, perhaps you can locate her. Good luck, Sam T. Don’t get yourself killed fighting an army of bandits, and like we discussed, the less publicity over their arrests we have, the better the governor will like it.”

  Sam T. nodded and he recalled some earlier instructions “Do I need to see Judge Tripp while I am in Tucson too?”

  “Yes, he’s the strongest official we have backing the marshals program.”

  “I’ll do that. The other new man you hired is due here soon?”

  “Yes, John Wesley Michaels. He’s suppose to arrive this week.”

  “Is Sterling going to let you hire him?”

  “He better. I think we now have an understanding with the governor. This territory needs a full set of marshals. Take care; looks like they’re loading passengers.”

  “Oh, I saw Miss VanKirk last night at her wedding. To be real honest, Major, I don’t believe she wore her corset.”

  “I know she didn’t.”

  “Oh?”

  “She threw the damn thing away somewhere below Maricopa Wells.”

  Sam T. laughed when he shook the man’s hand. It was sure neat to have something on the major. Always so straitlaced and he had to undo the woman’s underwear. Oh, he’d loved to have been there and seen it.

  “Sam T. Don’t take any unnecessary chances.”

  He sharply saluted the man. “No, sir.” Then, still amused about the major’s corset incident, he climbed in the coach.

  His arrival in Tucson the next morning in a cloud of dust and a loud “Whoa” from the driver looked uneventful enough. He climbed down, stiff and sore from the jolting twenty-four-hour ride. He’d had very little sleep and the food served along the way reminded him of pig slop. When he stepped off the coach in the early morning shadows, he spotted a short wiry man under a wide sombrero with crossed cartridge belts looking everywhere for someone. He felt certain the man must be Jesus Morales. He reminded Sam T. of a proud banty rooster.

  “Morales?” he shouted.

  “Sí, Señor Mayes. Did you have a good trip?” the ex-scout inquired, looking relieved to have found him. He quickly reached out and shook his hand.

  “Not too bad.” Sam hefted his war bag on his shoulder and looked around. “Where’s the Apache scout?”

  “Senor.” Jesus frowned up at Sam. T. “There is a small problem.” He sounded very secretive and glanced around the street as if making sure they were not being overheard.

  “Well, what is it?” Sam T. asked, feeling that if he continued having setbacks he would never get on the trail of these outlaws.

  Jesus whispered, “He is a Cherry-cow.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Some call them Chir-ic-ah-huas. Means a tribe of Apaches. Most call them Cherry-cows.”

  Jesus stopped Sam T. on the sidewalk, then he made certain they were alone save for a passing freight wagon before he said, “The agency at San Carlos won’t give him a pass to leave the reservation, because Geronimo took a lot of his people to Mexico. They are afraid men like Too-Gut would follow him down there if they gave him a pass.”

  Sam nodded. “This man—why the major said, he was a former scout for the army.”

  “Sí, he and I were both scouts for the army.”

  “Hell, that doesn’t make any damned sense,” Sam growled irritably.

  “I do not make the laws, Senor. We must be careful. The army has sent a lieutenant and some troopers from Fort Thomas to search Tucson for him. Those men are here now.” The scout cut his dark eyes around to check.

  “Oh, Lord!” Sam muttered. More delays and stumbling blocks. He hoped Mrs. Stauffer was still alive. A week had passed since she had been kidnapped. “Well, Morales, where’s the Apache right now?”

  “We’ll go meet him tonight. Come, we must get some supplies. I have a horse for you. The major said you would need a big horse. I think the one he picked will do. You are very big man, señor.”

  “Call me Sam T.”

  “Ah, sí.”

  Sam cocked an eyebrow and smiled wryly down at the smaller man. “Well, let’s get
those supplies.” Jesus had to hurry to keep up with him as they headed down the boardwalk.

  “Could I carry that for you?” Jesus offered to take his war bag.

  “No, I can manage it all right.”

  They passed a cantina and several loafers out in front spoke friendly to Morales. Sam T. understood enough border Spanish to know that they good-naturedly teased him about some woman.

  “I hope you and Morales get one of them tigres,” one of the men said, mostly in English, to Sam T.

  Sam agreed with a bemused frown. What in hell was all this about a tigre?

  Half a block away, Jesus spoke quietly. “I told several people that we were going to Mexico to hunt the jaguar.”

  “That’s right,” Sam said aloud. A good cover. Was it the man’s idea or the major’s? Didn’t matter; they were going tiger hunting, all right—for the two-legged variety.

  In a large store, Morales ordered the list of supplies, which Sam paid for with money that the major had advanced him. Dried beans, rice, bacon, canned goods, matches, flour, soda—the list looked complete enough to outfit them.

  “We will come tomorrow very early for these supplies,” Morales told the storekeeper.

  Outside the store, in a fast walk, Sam asked Jesus about a packhorse.

  “No problem, Sam T. He is with the other horses.”

  “How many more do we have?”

  “A packhorse, also one for Too-Gut, and one for his wife.”

  “Morales, his wife is going along? Are you crazy?”

  “Oh, no. You will see; it will be all right. Come on, I know a cantina ahead that has good food to eat,” Morales said with a grin.

  “A wife?” Sam repeated.

  Jesus shrugged as he led the way. “She is not very pretty, but she can cook and watch the horses.”

  “I need to go talk to Judge Tripp first.”

  Jesus didn’t say a word as they walked on.

  “The major said for me to talk to him before I left. Something wrong?”

  “No, we can go there. The courthouse is this way.”

  Good thing nothing was wrong. Sam T. would have to get used to this man’s ways. He liked Morales. Some people in the world he liked, some he tolerated, some he disliked. So far the man at the moment ranked in the upper third.

  Tucson was a town of plastered buildings. Commerce was the number one activity, Spanish the primary street language. Sam overheard bits and pieces of conversation, but understood only a little of it. He had learned that Tucson had once been the Confederate territorial capital, and sentiments still ran deep. It would do an ex-Union officer to keep an eye out; some old graybacks had not forgotten that conflict.

  Jesus waited outside the courthouse. Sam T. left his war bag with him. He wondered if the judge would be there that early. Inside the cool building, he spoke to a clerk behind a desk in the lobby. The building was so empty their words echoed in the halls.

  “Judge Tripp, please.”

  “Nature of your business?”

  “He’s expecting me.”

  “Name?”

  “Sam T. Mayes.”

  “Oh, yes. The head of the stairs, first office on the right.” The man looked up with his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose to examine him.

  Sam T. thanked him and went up the hardwood staircase.

  The door was open and a gray-haired man stood at the window in the second room.

  “Judge Tripp?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mayes is my name, sir.”

  “Ah, wonderful. Bowen told me all about you. Come in. Coffee?”

  “Certainly,” Sam T. said.

  Seated in a leather chair before the judge’s desk, he listened to the man’s version of the Stauffer murder and kidnapping. “A very attractive and well-liked lady in this city. Justine Stauffer was a member of the society circle here. I pray you can find her safe and alive. I managed to get a tintype from her mother. Actually under a false pretext. I didn’t mention you were coming, of course.”

  Sam T. thanked him. He studied the picture while Tripp went on talking about all the criminal happenings arid how pleased he was about the marshals’ formation. She was a strikingly attractive woman, perhaps too glamorous to be mixed up with these cutthroats and to survive.

  “You know the leader?” Tripp asked.

  “We have his name.”

  “The stage agent, he gave Taggett at the Halsey stage office a description of them. The poor man was still alive yesterday.”

  “Where’s this agent at?”

  “Verde City is the stage line’s headquarters.”

  “We best go there first. I’m going to do all I can for this lady.” He started to hand the tintype back.

  “No, Sam, you keep it. May help identify her, God forbid.” Tripp shook his head.

  “We’ll do the best we can.”

  “I know that. Oh, yes, I have two dozen John Doe warrants made out for you to take along. That should get them locked up in some jail until you can do more.” He handed the sheath over, then stuck out his hand. “God be with you, and if you need something, contact me. I want this marshal business to work.”

  “You are one of the rare ones,” Sam said and thanked him.

  “No, there are lots of good God-fearing folks out there farming and ranching want this mess cleaned up.”

  “That’s what it’s about.” Sam T. took his leave and hurried down the stairs and out of the courthouse.

  “What did he know?” Jesus asked, standing up.

  “We have a picture of Mrs. Stauffer,” Sam T. said, checking around before he handed him the tintype.

  “Oh, she is very pretty.” Jesus returned it with a serious nod.

  “Let’s hope she stays that way,” he said and pocketed the picture. “Now, about some food?”

  The cantina that Jesus chose to eat in was almost deserted in the morning hours. When they entered, Sam’s broad build drew a few curious stares.

  “Oh, Jesus,” a pretty girl exclaimed. Jesus caught her in a hug, then they chattered in Spanish like magpies.

  “Mona.” Jesus released her. “This is Senor Sam T. Mayes, who is going to Sonora to hunt tigres.”

  She smiled up at Sam, her eyes openly admiring his face and build. “Jesus is a very good guide, señor. You will have a good hunt down there.”

  Sam T. returned her smile. When she walked away, he noticed that Jesus’ eyes remained on her.

  “I ordered some food and beer,” he said at last.

  “Good,” Sam said and settled in the chair. His left hip still carried a bushwacker’s bullet embedded too deep to ever remove. It throbbed enough so that he shifted his weight on the seat. Perhaps Shirley had been right. He should have stayed at his office job. There would be plenty of long days in the saddle ahead of him. Tripp’s support sounded sincere enough. All this delay and the problem with the Apache … his new job might require more patience than he could muster. Maybe the food and beer would put him in a better mood.

  Lamas received his monthly invitation to visit Don Ramon Estaban Marques’s hacienda. Though still weary from the raids and each night enjoying the luscious Justine in his bed since he’d returned to the hacienda, he decided after reading the invitation he must go at once and see the don. It would not be wise to insult el patron. Don Marques would be his key to unlock the doors of the hacienda owners’ society to him. Besides, he had not seen the man in two months. He hoped Black had sent back some word of the rifle shipment. But Arizona was a long way from the factory—they could still be on a ship coming around the horn, for that matter.

  Leaning against the doorjamb, Lamas watched Pedro the gardener watering the flowers and plants. If he went to the Hacienda Marques, who could he leave in charge? Black was gone to the Santa Ritas in Arizona, where he slept with the widow woman. Sarge was off in the little village of La Paloma on a drinking binge at the cantina. Sanchez was busy getting his wife pregnant again. Which only left Jimmy.

  Most
likely the kid would still be sleeping off a night of drinking and lovemaking with the Indian girl. But if someone rode up and threatened his home, the gardener would run off screaming and the women in the kitchen would cower in a corner. Jimmy was only a shade better than nothing, but he could guard the captive women so they didn’t escape.

  Striding absently to the open gate, Lamas looked to the distant purple mountains. He knew this old hacienda made a perfect fort, isolated in the greasewood and organ pipe cactus of the desert. Who would come here to bother him? He shrugged off the thought of invaders. No one wanted to face such a powerful man as himself.

  With a sigh of resignation, Lamas went to the back bedroom to awaken the lazy boy.

  “Wake up!” Lamas stood over the sprawled naked form of the kid. Red nodules dotted the youth’s thin shoulders and back. His white skin’s coloration looked sickly pale against the dark blanket on the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” Jimmy grumbled as he rolled over on his back.

  “I must go see someone for a few days. You are in charge.”

  “In charge?” the kid groaned. He raised up on his elbow and blinked his sleep-filled eyes. “Oh, in charge.” Abruptly he was wide awake, his eyes no longer glazed, but sparkling with anticipation.

  Lamas cursed silently; his glare narrowed on the kid’s face. He knew the dull-witted boy suddenly realized what being in charge could mean.

  “If that gringo woman has one scratch on her when I return … .” He leaned over, his index finger pointing at the kid’s face like a saber. “One bruise on her, or you even touch her, I will kill you when I return. Comprende?”

  “Huh? Oh, sure.” Hurriedly Jimmy wrapped the blanket around his waist and swung his legs off the bed. “I wouldn’t do—”

  “Be certain that you do not touch her!” Lamas cut him off.

  “Hell, Lamas, I got that Indian girl to myself.”

  Indecision over leaving flashed through Lamas’s mind. He knew that the kid was a liar. He might even have to kill him when he returned from el patron’s, but what else could he do?