Lawless Land

by Dusty Richards

  “I am leaving immediately. Come outside.”

  Pedro had saddled his good black horse. Lamas carried a canteen of water and some food for the journey packed in his saddlebags He left orders with the gardener and the two Mexican women to feed the prisoners and see that they did not escape. He did not feel comfortable with the boy in charge, but perhaps nothing would happen.

  Jimmy was dressed and yawning by the porch post when Lamas mounted up. He looked down at the kid. He felt it would be a waste of time to warn Jimmy of the rules once again. He must ride and get back as quickly as possible.

  “Adiós. Take care of my hacienda, Jimmy!”

  “’Bye.” The kid waved, but did not move from his position on the porch.

  In the small bedroom that formed their dungeon, Justine lay on top of the covers. Her mind was blank. She had grown numb with fatigue from thinking of ways to escape. As she clutched the blanket, her heart tossed fretfully. She wanted to find sleep so that she could awaken from this nightmare.

  “Señora,” Angela whispered. “Lamas vamoose.”

  Justine looked up into the girl’s brown eyes. “Angela and Justine vamoose too,” she said pointing to the girl, then herself.

  Angela nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She was ready to escape.

  Now that the leader had left, Justine wondered who had been put in charge. The tall cowboy, perhaps? He would be a tough one to trick. But she thought he had ridden off earlier. So hard to keep track of time or dates, despite her plans to do so. The rat-faced Sanchez? No, she had not heard him in the halls for days either. A vision of the filthy Sarge caused her to shudder. How long since she heard his coarse gravelly voice in the hallway or outside in the past several days?

  Sighing to herself, she sat up on the bed. It did not matter who was left in charge; she and Angela were going to escape. Somehow. Just how she wasn’t sure, but an opportunity had to present itself.

  As if in answer to her prayers, Justine heard the door being unlocked. She glanced quickly at Angela, but the girl shook her head.

  Jimmy entered the room with a smug grin on his pocked face. From his look, she knew the answer to who was in charge. With his butt, he pushed the door closed behind him. He stared at Justine and his lips formed a smirk. This time she felt certain he had not come for the Indian girl.

  “Well, fancy lady, guess who left me in charge?” He moved to the end of the bed. “Either of you try anything, Lamas said to kill you. Understand?”

  Angela edged to get behind him. Justine knew she needed to draw his attention from the girl. She prayed that Angela had some plan in mind.

  “Take off your clothes, Mrs. Stauffer!”

  “I will not.”

  In a swift movement, the kid strode to her and jerked her off the bed. Choked by the wad of fear in her throat, she froze. Whatever he had in mind for her, from the look of wild excitement in his eyes, he would not be gentle. He appeared to be waiting for her to struggle, to give him a reason to overpower her.

  “W-wait,” she whispered, putting out a hand against his heaving chest. “I—I’ll do it. Don’t tear my dress. It’s all I have to wear.” A wave of revulsion swept, over her at the persuasive tone in her voice. She forced a smile to her lips and allowed her long lashes to sweep over her eyes. If only Angela would hurry and do something. Determinedly she resisted the temptation to look beyond the kid’s shoulders and see what the girl was doing.

  Jimmy laughed huskily and took a step backward. He licked his lips at the prospect of what came next. Justine began to slowly unbutton her dress in front. She wished the girl would hurry; her fingers trembled on each button. Jimmy’s breathing grew heavier. Justine knew his lust soon would overcome his anticipation, and then … She squeezed her eyes shut tight. Next she felt him reach out and push the material aside, exposing her breasts.

  A dull thud and a splash of water caused her eyes to flash open. Angela stood behind the glazed-eyed kid. The dripping olla hung from the girl’s hand. Jimmy weaved on his feet, then with a low grunt slumped forward on the bed.

  “Ha!” Angela exclaimed. She looked grimly at Justine and nodded. Justine froze for a moment, then Angela began gesturing wildly, indicating they should tie Jimmy up. In haste, Justine closed her blouse to cover herself and did half the buttons.

  Quickly gathering her scattered wits, Justine helped roll the wet man over and pull the sheet from under him.

  With reluctance, she removed the revolver from his holster.

  “Señora, here.” Angela said insistently and she pointed at the cartridge belt around his waist. The girl quickly made strips of the sheet.

  Swept with nausea, Justine looked at the man’s white face and plastered hair. She cringed at even the thought of touching him. Finally she undid the buckle and pulled off the belt. Angela bound his hands behind his back with strips of the sheet and gagged him with his own kerchief. The Indian girl certainly had no intention of letting a revived outlaw follow their trail.

  Angela drew a knife from the kid’s sheath. The sight of the weapon sickened Justine; then she told herself the knife was a necessity. But a knife and a handgun seemed small protection against a gang of cutthroats should they catch up with them.

  Angela sprang to her side and pushed her toward the door. There was urgency in her movements that galvanized Justine into action.

  After easing open the thick door, the women looked out in the shadowy hallway. There was not a sign of anyone. Justine signaled Angela to step into the hallway and to keep watch while she replaced the bolt on the outside of the door. Then, easing flat against the cool walls of the house, they moved toward the back door. Voices came from the kitchen and halted them in their tracks. Justine placed her hand over her heart, trying to still the violent pounding. With her other hand, she tried to hold steady the holster so the cartridge belt would not rattle.

  The voices faded, and the two women took their chance. Running on their toes, they hurried to the back passage. At the door they stopped. Angela grabbed two floppy sombreros off a peg and shoved one at Justine.

  Justine put it on clumsily, then glanced back, expecting to see the menacing faces of Lamas’s servants. She swallowed a hard knot in her throat. No one followed them. A wave of relief swept over her, but Angela’s tug on her arm brought her back to sharp awareness.

  The stable was a ramshackle affair of crooked poles and a brush arbor roof. As the women raced toward it, Justine feared she would hear a shout from the gardener. But there was no sound of a human outside.

  Hastily, Angela picked two gentle-looking horses to saddle. A few moments later she lithely swung aboard the smaller horse. Justine fought to retain hold of the gun belt and at the same time struggled to get on her animal. It didn’t work. She followed it around in a circle. At last she was forced to put the belt over her head and loop it over her chest and under her arm in order to mount the horse. She smiled grimly at last in the saddle. It was stupid to be so worried about losing the gun belt when she had never even fired a gun in her life. But she knew they had to have some kind of defense.

  For a moment, she wondered what the Indian girl planned next. Angela dismounted, opened the gate bars and went inside the pen. Holding her own horse by the reins, she waved her arms at the others. They broke out of the opening to escape the corral. Justine reined in hers to assist the girl. She quickly realized the plan. No horses—no pursuit. The herd stampeded through the front compound gate and under the archway. Like a jockey, Angela rode low on the neck of her pony close after them. She screamed earshattering war cries to spur the horses on faster. The two of them raced north with all of Lamas’s horses pounding ahead of them.

  Sam T. and Jesus finished their meal of peppery rich food and settled back to drink their coffee when four soldiers burst into the cantina. A clean-shaven lieutenant, wearing a stiff-brimmed felt hat and a starched uniform, led the men. A customer pointed him in the direction of Jesus and Sam T.

  “We have trouble, seño
r,” Jesus murmured with a look of dread in his brown pupils. Sam turned his head to see the officer stop abruptly at their table.

  “Jesus Morales?” the officer asked. “We’re looking for an ex-army scout. He is a Chiricahua by the name of Too-Gut.”

  Jesus shrugged. “What has he done?”

  “Done? He’s a bronco Chiricahua,” the officer repeated grimly. “That is reason enough. Now, I did not come here to be put off. I have it on good authority that you know where this man is.”

  Sam T. sized up the lieutenant. In his early twenties, and no doubt fresh out of West Point. His arrogant manner irritated Sam T.

  “Lieutenant,” Sam said, “just hold on a minute. This man is an officer of the court. You better back off.”

  The young officer raised a haughty scowl at Sam. “I suggest, sir, that you stay out of this. It does not concern you.”

  Sam T. rose to his feet, his tall frame towering over them. With his eyes narrowed in warning, he jabbed a finger in the officer’s direction. “You listen good, Lieutenant. You are out of your jurisdiction here.”

  “Who are you, sir?”

  Scowling with impatience, Sam T. gritted his teeth. “An officer of the court, Sam T. Mayes.”

  “Mr. Mayes”—the officer stressed the “mister” part and his lip curled back to emphasis his meaning—“this is a military matter.”

  “No, it’s you who doesn’t understand. This man’s a civilian, not military.” He jerked a thumb in Jesus’ direction, not taking his deep-set gaze from the lieutenant. “Morales is my deputy.”

  The young officer swung sharply; his heels clicked together and he commanded, “Sergeant, arrest this man.”

  Feet apart, Sam swept back his coat and gripped the bone handle of his Colt. “As you were, Sergeant! Now, Lieutenant, you listen to me. I told you this man works for me, and if you don’t want a full military funeral, I suggest you back off. Now!”

  The officer’s face paled. “Who is your superior?”

  “Major Gerald Bowen, army retired. He’s in Prescott.”

  “You can be certain, Mr. Mayes, that I will wire him. I’m sure Major Bowen will support me in this matter.”

  Sam T. shrugged. He didn’t care who the lieutenant wired. “That’s your privilege.” He leaned forward slightly and stared down into the lieutenant’s eyes. “For now, back off.”

  His face red with either anger or embarrassment, the officer turned to his noncom. “Sergeant, move the men out.”

  Sam T. sat down and watched them fire out the door. He wasn’t sure that the lieutenant wouldn’t reconsider and be back in a few moments if his anger got the better of his discretion.

  “Now I see why the major hired you,” Morales commented with a grin. “Did you know that lieutenant would back down?”

  Sam T. shrugged. “I figured he would.” He had gambled on the man’s inexperience and won.

  “We will have to be more careful,” Jesus said. “The military wants Too-Gut.”

  “That doesn’t make a damned bit of sense,” Sam T. muttered and lifted his cup of cold coffee. “According to the major, Too-Gut was a loyal scout. Why does the army want to treat him like he’s a criminal now?”

  “I do not understand either, but it is a crazy law, no?”

  Taken back by the injustice of the matter and what little he could do to resolve it, Sam T. lowered his cup. “Maybe we’d better move on and find this Too-Gut.”

  “You are right. Come on.” Jesus stood and led the way out of the rear of the cantina as he talked. “We will ride south; Too-Gut will see us and join us. We will not have to look for him.”

  “Morales, these outlaws are holding Mrs. Stauffer. It’s been over a week now. We can’t afford to dally around here very long. I hate to think what they might be doing to her.” War bag on his shoulder, he followed the man into the alley and the bright sun. No sign of the soldiers.

  “I have learned some things about this gang the last few days.” Jesus checked around to be certain they were alone. “They are led by this Lamas and many of his gang are simple farmers and small ranchers from below the border. But I hear he also has some very mean men that ride for him, besides these peons.”

  “Any more names?”

  Jesus shook his head. “People are afraid to say much more.”

  They stopped at the end of the alley and checked the street both ways. Sam T. saw no sign of the military and felt relieved. They turned and hurried up the dirt street filled with stray chickens and screaming brown-skinned children at play.

  “What will we need to catch them?” Sam T. asked after a quick check over his shoulder. He saw nothing out of place.

  “We will need all the help we can get.”

  “I agree we need this Too-Gut, if he’s a fighter.”

  “Oh, he’s a fighter. I think we should get the horses and leave right now.”

  “Yes. We better do that,” Sam T. agreed. “I’m real concerned for this Stauffer woman’s safety.”

  “If we wait until the sun sets, those soldiers would have a harder time to find us.”

  “How late is that mercantile open?”

  “Oh, I forgot. We will need to get the supplies.” Jesus shook his head in disappointment.

  “We can ride through the alleys and be certain we don’t meet them. You know this town better than they do.”

  “I have a better idea. We can send Tia to get the supplies. They don’t know her.”

  “That’s your lady friend?”

  “You will meet her.” Jesus beamed with pride.

  “Good.” Sam T. checked again and breathed easier when nothing was behind them. They hurried on toward the south side of town.

  Tia’s place was a small hovel on a few acres of irrigated land. The horses stood in a pole corral behind her casa, munching on fresh hay. He spotted the sorrel over the others. From a distance he appeared to be a good, tall horse.

  “Buenos dias,” the short, attractive woman said from the doorway.

  “Tia, this is Sam T.,” Jesus said.

  “I am glad to meet you.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” he said, putting down the bag and wiping his sweaty forehead on his sleeve.

  “We need you to take the packhorse to the mercantile and get the supplies he bought,” Jesus explained. “The army is looking for Too-Gut. We had one run-in with them already.”

  “It’ll be better if they don’t follow us,” Sam T. added.

  “No problem. Do I need to pay for the supplies?” She looked at both of them for the answer.

  “No, they’re paid for. I’ll write the man a note,” Sam T. offered.

  “I’ll go saddle the packhorse,” Jesus said and hurried off.

  “Sam T.,” she said in a low voice when he was gone. “Don’t let Jesus drink.” Her frown of disapproval punctuated her words.

  He nodded to the short woman that he understood. One more thing to add to his problems. She never explained herself, but tossed her head and walked around back where Jesus was fixing the packsaddle. He shouldered his bag and followed her.

  Jesus wasted no time piling the crossbuck on the bay horse and cinching it up. “The red one is your horse.” He motioned toward it.

  “Got a name for him?” Sam T. asked, circling the sorrel with a critical eye.

  “No.”

  “I’ll call him Big Boy, then.” He caught the rope halter and peeled back the horse’s lips for an examination of his teeth; he decided he was five or six years old. Good stout horse; the major did all right. He bent over and checked the shoe on the front foot. Then he recalled the note Tia would need from him and went for his war bag.

  He wrote for the merchant to release the supplies to Tia and told him that they needed to leave sooner than expected. She left in a trot, leading the bay down the narrow lane for the road.

  They went over their gear. Sam T. let out the stirrups on his saddle and unloaded his war bag. He tied the bedroll and slicker behind the seat, put his Winches
ter in the scabbard. Then he stuffed the extra shells, writing paper, pencils, a clean shirt, some socks and underwear in the saddlebags. Mentally taking inventory, he remembered the warrants and added them.

  “How far is Verde City?” he asked, straightening with his hands on his hips, trying to stretch his stiff back.

  “Only a few days ride—south.”

  “At the Halsey stage office they have descriptions of the gang members. What else can we do?”

  “We can bribe some people who know on the border.” Jesus made a strong bob of his head to reassure him this plan would work if the stage agent was no help.

  Tia returned in a short while with the packhorse loaded. No one had followed her. Out of breath, her enthusiasm still shone on her face.

  “See any soldiers?” Jesus asked.

  “They never saw me.” She smiled smugly and he led the horse around the back to put with the others. “I will fix some food.”

  “Maybe we better be leaving,” Sam T. said, feeling uneasy about the time lost.

  “No, you must eat first.”

  “I won’t argue.” After the bad food on the stage ride and the prospect of campfire cooking ahead, he agreed with a nod to her. “We’ll eat before we leave.”

  Jesus returned in a few minutes and convinced him it would be better to leave under the cover of darkness. They unsaddled the packhorse, took a siesta beneath a palm-frond ramada and ate some of her rich spicy food before sundown.

  “When you return, we will have a fiesta,” she promised them, then stood on her toes and kissed Jesus good-bye. Sam T. agreed they would need a celebration on their return. He mounted Big Boy, reached out, took the packhorse lead and, with a wave to her, started down the lane. His scout led the other two horses for the Apaches and followed him. In the west, the fiery sun set behind the saw-edged mountains.

  The men rode in silence along the shallow river. The road wound under great gnarled cottonwoods that lined the way.

  “How far are we going tonight?”

  “Not far,” Jesus said vaguely.

  Sam sighed inwardly. He’d have to rely on Jesus and gamble that the major was right about him being trustworthy. Time would soon tell about the man’s judgment.