Lawless Land

by Dusty Richards

  In the starlight, the jagged silhouette of the distant mountains looked brooding. Around them, the desert hillsides stood studded with giant-armed cactus that towered like menacing threats under the starlight.

  After an hour’s ride, Jesus brought his horse to a halt and called out something in Spanish. Sam reined in beside him. There was no answer to Jesus’ shout. Then in the distance he heard an owl hoot. Jesus answered with a similar call.

  “Sam T., Too-Gut is coming.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Sam said. His hand instinctively rested on his gun butt, while he peered around in the dim light.

  A short figure, wearing an unblocked hat, emerged from the night. He spoke in stilted English. “We wondered if Morales had forgot us.”

  “Sam T., this is Too-Gut.”

  The man came forward. Sam dismounted, flicked a match and held it up so that he could see the Indian’s face. Satisfied, he blew it out.

  “Sam T., the major is a good man.” The Apache reached out and squeezed Sam’s hand in both of his. They were callused and his fingers were strong. “If he says to ride with you, then we go.”

  “The major tells me you’re a good man as well,” Sam T. said, convinced of the man’s sincerity.

  “You see soldiers?” Too-Gut asked.

  “Sí. We had a run-in with some tonight. So we better ride,” Jesus said, his voice filled with concern.

  Sam T. peered into the darkness behind the Indian. “Who is that?” he asked, recognizing another figure in the silver light as female.

  “Da-yah,” Too-Gut grunted.

  Sam T. recalled Jesus’ earlier words about Too-Gut’s wife. He sighed inwardly. He had hoped she was not along. Nothing else to do; he spoke softly, “Mount up.”

  They rode down the King’s Highway at a jog until after midnight. Jesus led the way across a shallow ford.

  “We could camp here,” he offered on the other side.

  Sam T. agreed and dismounted wearily. His hip ached and he hoped that the stiffness would pass, if he ever became accustomed to riding long distances again. He undid his bedroll and dropped it on the ground. When he turned back, the woman wordlessly took the reins to his horse.

  “Sleep, Sam T. We will guard this place,” Jesus assured him.

  “I’ll take a turn,” he said.

  Too-Gut laughed. “No need, Sam T. Apaches never sleep.”

  Grateful for their assurances, Sam knew for certain he could fall asleep without even trying. Besides, it was time for him to test the major’s confidence in these men. He spread out his blanket and, with the Colt in his right hand, settled on the hard ground to sleep. His eyes closed and he fell into an uneasy slumber.

  In the cool of the morning, Sam T. studied the distant Santa Rita Mountains. A flock of buzzards circled a short distance down the shallow Santa Cruz River. Their low, tight formation indicated something dead.

  “The buzzards are finding breakfast, no?” Jesus commented when he joined Sam.

  “Where’s Too-Gut?” The Apache had not been seen since Sam arose. His woman acted busy making a fire and cooking, but he’d not seen her mate. She was a small woman in a many-layered brown skirt and simple blouse, and he ventured her to be in her teens. Not pretty, with a hawk nose and eyes like dark precious stones, but all business.

  “Who knows?” Jesus shrugged his shoulders under the ammunition belts like it was no problem. “Perhaps he has gone hunting. Do not worry, Sam T., Too-Gut will be back.”

  Yeah, Sam thought, that’s easy for you to say. What the hell do I know about Apaches? The sight of that many buzzards unsettled him too. They were probably after an expired rabbit or maybe a dead wild horse or steer. Hell, it could be anything. There was no need to get worked up about a bunch of vultures. But where the hell was his scout?

  Sam turned and walked back toward the campfire. Da-yah squatted beside the small fire and watched over a bubbling pot of beans. The smell of strong coffee from the other container tickled Sam T.’s hose. He watched the woman tilt her head and scan the distant land, as though searching for something. Then he turned to see what she was looking for.

  Too-Gut came into view on horseback, hurrying his way down the steep, sandy bank. He splashed across the shallow river and used his rifle stock to spank the horse up the other side to join them.

  “Sam T., two men are down. One is dead. Come quick!”

  “Here,” Jesus said, “take my saddled horse.” He handed Sam the reins and turned to the Apache. “Do you know these dead men, Too-Gut?”

  “No.” The Apache reined his mount around and led Sam back the way he had come.

  Keeping his feet free of the short stirrups, Sam followed with a grim impression of what to expect. He’d seen corpses eaten by buzzards before. The great black birds flushed off the branches at their approach When they rode into the clearing, Sam did not need Too-Gut’s pointing finger to spot the men.

  “One is still alive. Barely.” Too-Gut pointed his rifle barrel toward a man seated on the ground, his back against a tree.

  Sam T. dismounted quickly, taking Jesus’ canteen from the saddle horn. He hurried to the wounded man’s side. Death was no stranger to Sam, and the man’s sunken eyes and grayish skin told him the wounded man’s time on earth would soon expire. Kneeling beside him, Sam T. noted the dried black blood on his shirt, centered by a moist spot of fresh crimson.

  He propped the man against his shoulder and tilted the canteen of tepid water to his lips. The man’s mouth was cracked and caked with the desert’s dryness as though he had been sitting against the scrubby tree a long time.

  Slowly Sam T. trickled water into his mouth. The copper smell of the wound tried to overpower him. After the man had weakly drunk, he nodded his head in thanks.

  “Who did this?” Sam T. asked quietly. He glanced around, noting that Too-Gut waved his arms at the brazen vultures to ward them away.

  “A day ago …” The dying man’s words were so weak that Sam had to strain his ears to make out what he was saying. “We were camped out on … the road. They jumped us. Two masked men. Marched us here—shot us—took the wagon.” A violent burst of coughing broke up his words. He gasped for breath.

  “The wagon? What was it carrying?” Sam asked.

  “A hundred new rifles.”

  “For who?”

  “A merchant in Nogales,” the man gasped out. “Arman—”

  “The men who shot you—?” Sam T. started to question him before he realized the man was dead. Gently he eased him to the ground.

  Rising stiffly, Sam T. shouted to Too-Gut, who searched the ground for any tracks left by the killers. “Can you make out anything?”

  The Apache rose and pointed westward. “Two men and a wagon went back across the river.”

  “Follow the trail.” Sam T. glanced around at the corpses. He hated to leave them to be carrion for the black scavenger birds.

  Jesus burst through the brush on his sorrel. “Who are these men?”

  “Freighters who were carrying a wagonload of rifles for someone called Arman something.”

  The Mexican dismounted and glanced in disapproval at the dead man by the tree.

  “Sam T., what do you think happened here?”

  “I think we have some cold-blooded killers who stole a load of rifles.” He motioned toward the lifeless man. “He said it was a day ago, but he was delirious.” For a long moment he considered what they should do next. “Need to do something with them.”

  “Sí. It is bad to leave them for the buzzards.”

  “We should bury them.” Sam T. said, speaking his thoughts aloud. He knew it would be better to hurry and get on the trail of the killers, but he found it distasteful to simply leave the corpses out in the open.

  Jesus scuffed the hard ground with the side of his boot sole. “This is caliche; we cannot dig in this hard ground. It is better to use rocks to cover them.”

  Sam T. nodded in agreement. He turned as Too-Gut rejoined them. “Wel
l?”

  “Wagon, horses go south.”

  Sam T. looked around and scowled. He let out a deep breath and said quietly, “We’ll bury them in one common grave. A wagon can’t get too far ahead even if they’ve got a day’s start.” He looked at his men, anticipating an argument, but there was only a grimace of distaste on Too-Gut’s face and weary acceptance on Jesus’.

  A rock mound had been formed over the corpses when Da-yah appeared. She spoke in a low undertone with her husband.

  With a smile, Too-Gut turned to Sam T. “Woman do this. We go eat food.”

  “Come on, Sam T.,” Jesus invited. “The food will be getting cold.”

  Sam looked doubtfully at Da-yah. But her blank expression gave nothing away. She had obviously made her decision. He gave her a slow smile of gratitude, which she acknowledged with a slight inclination of her head.

  He followed the men back to camp. He worried about the load of stolen weapons and their final destination. Besides, they had two murderers to chase down. Another delay. At the rate they moved, he would never find that Stauffer woman or the gang of cutthroats.

  Maybe Shirley had been right; he might have been better off in his desk position. No; he shook his head wearily. He liked the challenge of his new position. It was just the damned setbacks that irritated him. Maybe he wasn’t doing his job right? What would the major want him to do?

  Removing his Stetson, he ran his hand through his thick brown hair. The major would want him to get the rifles back from these outlaws if he could do it quickly. He would just have to hope that Justine Stauffer was still alive.

  The men gobbled down the beans and washed away the taste with bitter coffee. Sam could see the impatience of his assistants as a tangible thing. He knew exactly how they felt, for he shared the same irritating frustration.

  “We’ll have to find that wagon,” Sam said, noting the buzzards still circled.

  “You mean before we go to Verde City?” Jesus asked, his dark brown eyes locked on Sam’s.

  “Yes, we better stop and try to catch these bandits. Too-Gut can trail them.”

  The Apache nodded. “Leave big tracks, write direction on the ground.” A big smile exposed very white teeth against his copper skin. “We catch them quick.”

  “What about Da-yah?” Sam asked.

  “She will come,” Jesus assured him as he stood up.

  Sam T. set his plate down on a rock and took out a small cigar. He peered through the blue smoke of the match. “Where can a man sell rifles?”

  “To Apaches,” Too-Gut said.

  “You think Apaches did that?” Sam T. gestured toward the area where the buzzards were hung in the sky.

  “No, but there are still Apaches around here.” Too-Gut waved his thick arm to the east and to the mountains that rose up far across the desert.

  “I thought Crook had all the Apaches on the reservations,” Sam T. commented, ready to remount the red horse.

  “One they call Geronimo is still on the loose. Some say he has much Mexican gold.”

  Sam T. shook his head. “Why would an Apache want gold?” He looked at Too-Gut for an answer.

  The Indian grinned. “White man not take beads for long guns.” His words drew grim laughter from Sam and Jesus.

  The men rode together in a companionable silence, tracking two killers. At midday, Too-Gut dismounted and crouched low to inspect the ground. Sam clasped his hands on the saddle horn and waited. The fact that Da-yah had not yet joined them bothered him.

  When Too-Gut walked back to them, Sam tried to read his expression. “What’s the problem?”

  “Wagon went off the road.” He pointed into the mesquite and catclaw.

  Sam squinted against the harsh sun. He wiped his forearm against his sweating brow and cursed soundlessly. Now what was he supposed to do? He looked at his Mexican scout. “Jesus, how far can they get in that direction with a wagon?” He pointed, indicating east.

  “Not far.”

  “Well, lead off.”

  They found the abandoned wagon in a dry wash. It was empty. Sam walked around it, glaring in disgust at the bleached boards. He slapped his palm against the sideboards. “We’re too late.”

  Jesus shouted from the dry wash, “They loaded the guns on packhorses here.”

  The sound of drumming hooves on their back trail drew Sam’s attention. To his relief, Da-yah came into view, leading the packhorse. One small worry off his shoulders. Now he had a new one to take its place. The thieves could move faster with the packhorses than they did with a wagon. There was no telling how far ahead they’d gone. He asked Too-Gut’s opinion.

  “They maybe were here this morning,” the Apache commented. Not waiting for a reply, he moved ahead, inspecting the trail of the packhorses.

  Sam felt torn with indecision. He could follow the thieves or he could continue south to learn the woman’s fate. “Damn the lawless Arizona Territory,” he cursed under his breath.

  “Jesus, we’ll ride after these men for one day, then we have to turn south. My job is to get Mrs. Stauffer back and try to bring in the Border Gang. This setback is not going to help us.”

  “Sí. Sam T.” Jesus nodded in agreement. He spurred his horse up the sandy wash in the direction that Too-Gut rode. Sam T. turned to Da-yah.

  She smiled widely for the first time and spoke in fair English. “You don’t worry, Sam T. We catch them fast.” She rode past Sam, jerking on the lead of the reluctant packhorse. He shook his head in disbelief over the whole matter. He only wished he were as confident as his assistants.

  By twilight they crossed a high range and coursed up a wide canyon between two sets of hills. Too-Gut was scouting ahead, while Jesus rode with Sam T. and Da-yah.

  “Tomorrow, if we haven’t found these killers,” Sam T. said with a sigh, “we’ll have to forget about them for a while.”

  “They have to rest. They will be at a place called Miguel’s Cantina,” Jesus said matter-of-factly.

  Sam glanced at him in surprise. “What sort of place is it?”

  “One for bad hombres.” Jesus’ solemn face punctuated the seriousness of the location.

  “What makes you think they’re going there?”

  “Because, Sam T., there is no place else to go.” Jesus turned in the saddle and gestured at the cactus-studded land in the low twilight. Sam supposed Jesus was right. He would just have to trust the Mexican’s judgment.

  Later, a crescent moon rose. The three of them squatted on a ridge that overlooked the cantina. The yellow lights of Miguel’s flickered on the dark floor of the valley below. Too-Gut had already been down there and inspected the place.

  “Packhorses there, Sam T. Eight of them. Have wet backs, but the guns are gone.”

  “Did they take them inside?”

  “No boxes inside. Only three men and a woman,” Too-Gut said

  “Miguel has a Papago wife,” Jesus said, to explain the woman there.

  “And the men inside the bar—what are they doing?” Sam asked, shifting a little in his uncomfortable squatting position. Maybe someday he’d get used to this business of sitting on his heels.

  “One is perhaps Miguel. The other two have big time. Very drunk,” Too-Gut said with a smile in his voice.

  “Where in the hell are the guns?” Sam wondered aloud.

  “Maybe,” Jesus said slyly, “the drunk men will want to tell us, no?”

  Sam nodded, pushed up and stretched his back. Puzzled by the events of the day, he turned and absently took his reins from Da-yah. He mounted the sorrel and waited for his assistants to do the same. Then they began the descent down to the cantina.

  “Let me go in there first,” he said. “They won’t suspect me. I’ll tell them I’m lost.” The others agreed with a nod.

  Sam T. drew up alone in front of the cantina and dismounted heavily. Too-Gut and Jesus lingered behind so they could station themselves strategically around the cantina.

  “Good evening, señor,” a voice greeted him
from the dimly lit doorway when he hitched his horse.

  “Hello.”

  “You are lost, señor?” the man asked in a heavy Mexican accent.

  “Maybe. But I could sure use a meal and some whiskey,” Sam said pleasantly.

  “Ah. Come into Miguel’s,” the man invited.

  When Sam T. entered the low-ceilinged adobe structure, he immediately noted the two men at the bar. They stopped drinking and eyed him suspiciously.

  “What’s your business here?” the taller one demanded. Sam T. realized that, even drunk, these men would be deadly. He calculated that Jesus and Too-Gut had had enough time to be in place.

  A woman shouted from the back of the cantina. The men whirled and drew upon her.

  Sam T. dropped to his knees, the .45 in his hand. His gun kicked and the roar of pistols blasted the room. Sam’s bullet caught the taller outlaw in the chest and sent him sprawling backward onto a table. The outlaw’s bullet smashed into the glass behind the bar. Miguel gave a shout of pain that for a second took Sam’s attention from second outlaw. Deciding to run, the shorter one headed for the back, but Too-Gut’s rifle cut him down before he reached the rear doorway.

  Sam T. watched the man crumple to the floor and knew he was no longer a threat. Acrid gun smoke rose in a gray cloud enveloping the room.

  “Madre de Dios!” Miguel shouted. Sam T. turned and noticed that the cantina owner had been shot in the shoulder. He crossed the room and glared down at Miguel. “Where are those rifles?”

  “I am a poor man, señor. I know nothing of any rifles.”

  “You see that Apache?” Sam T. said, gesturing with his thumb at Too-Gut. “He’s a Chiricahua. I’ll let him have your mangy hide, and he’ll get the damned truth out of you. So you better get to talking fast.”

  “I did not know these men who brought the packhorses. Miguel minds his own business,” the cantina owner whined and hugged his wounded arm.

  “I want a name.”

  “I do not know, señor.” The man’s eyes were pleading as he protested.

  “Too-Gut,” Sam shouted, “get over here!”