Lawless Land

by Dusty Richards

  “Oh, Mother of God,” the man gasped. “I don’t know these men. Many strangers came and took the boxes from them.” He flung his hand out at the dead men. “Then they rode away.”

  “And who are these dead outlaws here?”

  Miguel shrugged and averted his eyes from the prone outlaws on his floor. “One is Jeff. One is Salty. They rode here today. I have only seen this Jeff before. A week ago he came in here.”

  “From which direction?” Sam demanded.

  Miguel bit his lip, glanced at Too-Gut, then answered with a gulp. “South.”

  Sam T. looked questioningly at Jesus, who shook his head.

  “He is very much afraid, Sam T. I think he is telling all that he knows.”

  “Check their pockets.” Sam pursed his lips. Two dead men in exchange for two more was a poor average. And it was worse when he had no leads. A load of rifles was on its way to who knew where, and if that wasn’t bad enough, the rifles were loaded on fresh horses. He would never catch them and save Mrs. Stauffer too.

  Scowling in disgust, Sam T. moved behind the bar and took down an unbroken bottle of whiskey. He used his teeth to uncork it, then took a long swallow from the neck.

  “There is a note in this man’s pocket,” Jesus said.

  “Let me have it.” He took another drink of the bitter whiskey, the fumes stinging his nostrils. Then he sat the bottle down and reached for the piece of paper that Jesus extended to him.

  It was badly creased at the folds, and sweat had caused the ink to run. Sam turned the paper up to the light. All he could make out was one word, more, and he wasn’t too sure that was right. Besides, the word didn’t make any sense.

  “I can’t read the damned thing. It’s too messed up. How much money they got on them?”

  “Maybe two hundred dollars.” Jesus dropped the twenty-dollar gold eagles on the bar. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and sampled it. “Whew! This is bad whiskey.”

  Sam T. agreed with a nod, thinking of Tia’s words. “Don’t drink any more of it. Where’s Miguel’s woman? Maybe she can doctor him. It looks like he’s only scratched.”

  Da-yah nodded, disappeared and came back shoving a thickset Indian woman into the room.

  “I will get the man to talk plenty,” Too-Gut said, making it more of an offer.

  “No, no. I think he’s said all he knows. Here,” Sam T. said, handing Too-Gut the bottle, “have some bad whiskey.” The Apache took the bottle, drank some and then grinned big like it was good.

  Jesus made a face at the Apache’s thirst of the firewater and shook his head. “What now?”

  “We need to head west. We’ll never catch those gunrunners with their fresh horses.”

  “Sí. It will take all night to get to Verde City,” Jesus said, taking the bottle from Too-Gut.

  Sam picked up the coins from the bar. “Two hundred dollars for a wagonload of rifles and four men’s lives. Come on, let’s get out of here. Miguel can bury these two outlaws.”

  Sam T.’s shoulders slumped when he walked outside to his horse. He would need to send a report of this incident to the major. Perhaps Bowen could alert other lawmen about the stolen rifle shipment.

  Already he and his assistants had lost a valuable day. It was a precious amount of time for a kidnapped woman to have to wait.

  CHAPTER 10

  LAMAS studied Don Ramon Marques across the heavy table. El patron was a man in his mid-fifties, his silvery hair meticulously slicked back. He wore many thick gold rings on his thin fingers, and his jacket was a beautifully embroidered velvet garment.

  Smiling to himself, Lamas lifted the goblet of wine. Who would have thought, when he was a boy in the village, that he would someday feast as an equal with such a powerful man as Don Ramon?

  “Any news, my friend,” Marques asked, “about the shipment of those rifles?” He paused and sipped some wine before he continued. “I will be most grateful for their delivery.”

  “Sí, Patron,” Lamas said noncommittally. “My man has gone to Nogales to check on them. Delivery of freight sometimes is slow.

  “I understand. I am grateful for your hard work on my behalf.”

  Lamas wondered if the man knew about this gringo with the big ransom in Nogales. He considered how he should phrase his question.

  “Ah, Don Ramon, do you know of an American called Narrimore?”

  “Ah, yes, my friend. He is a very rich and powerful Americano from Tucson. His name is Daniel Narrimore.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Gold and silver mining. He has some claims in Mexico. Very rich man. I have been to his fine house in Tucson.”

  Lamas expressed no surprise at the information. So the man who offered a reward for the woman owned many mines. It was all very interesting; Lamas mulled on the matter. That large a ransom for the woman looked so tempting. He must plan it carefully.

  He smiled and raised his goblet. “I will soon have those guns for you, Don Ramon.”

  “Ah, good. We are all good friends, amigo. Of course, I will pay you well.” He raised his glass. “To our friendship.”

  When a servant entered the room, Marques looked at him impatiently. “Well, what is it?”

  “Someone wishes to speak to Señor Lamas.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A peon.”

  “Let him wait.” Don Ramon scowled at the man. “We are in the middle of our meal.”

  “Sí, señor. But this man, he said it is very important.” The servant looked pained and concerned about the matter.

  It might be important. Lamas placed the linen napkin from his lap beside his silver plate, then smiled at his host. “Excuse me, Don Marques. I will speak to this peon and send him on his way.”

  Lamas’s heels clicked across the tile floor as he hurried toward the entrance. What stupid one was here to disturb his meal with the patron? He would kill the dumb bastard for such an intrusion.

  When he entered the vestibule, he saw his gardener Pedro. His hat was in his hand, his face downcast. Something bad was wrong at the hacienda. Lamas did not like the looks of this. The gardener waited silently until Lamas had dismissed the don’s servant.

  “Señor Lamas, you must come at once! The woman, she has escaped.”

  “Escaped! You lie. How could she escape?” Lamas asked under his breath. That stupid Jimmy had let her get away. He would pay with his life.

  “I am sorry, but they rode away yesterday.”

  “Yesterday! Ride your horse like the wind, Pedro. Go get Sanchez. Tell him—” Lamas stopped abruptly, reading in the man’s face that there was something more he had to say. “What—what else is wrong?”

  “I have only a burro; the women, they have stolen all your horses too. Every one, they took them all.” Pedro made a wide sweep with his white sleeve to demonstrate.

  “Stolen all my horses!” Lamas shouted. He would stake that Jimmy to an anthill, pour honey on him and laugh as the ants devoured his flesh.

  “You take my horse. I will borrow one from Don Ramon. Go ride and tell Sanchez to come to my hacienda quickly.” He watched his servant hurry away.

  Shaken by the news, he shook his head in disbelief. All of his horses gone? Struggling to regain his composure, Lamas turned and walked slowly back to the dining room. He forced a smile at his host.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “My man, he worries.” Lamas shrugged, taking his place at the table. “Someone has stolen some of my horses.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Marques burst into laughter. “Even from Lamas they steal.”

  “Yes. Even from me.” Lamas forced himself to join in the mirth. “Even from me they steal. But I have sent this man to get my best tracker. Justice will be swift.”

  “Yes, amigo,” Don Ramon agreed soberly. “Horse thieves must be handled quickly and severely. Sit and eat. There will be time later to catch these felons.”

  “Certainly,” Lamas said unconcernedly, although inwardly he seethed with angry impa
tience. There would be time enough to catch them, he tried to reassure himself. Later, he would ask His Excellency for a horse, although he knew it would cause more laughter at his expense.

  He lifted his goblet, his eyes on the regal-looking man across the table. Mary Gonzales, you village puta, with the clap, he mused, if only you could see me now. I, the village bastardo, have become a leader of men, and now I eat with great men of power. And I too have beautiful clothes such as Don Ramon’s. He smiled smugly as he looked down at the red silk shirt he wore, the cuffs and pockets outlined with black silken threads.

  Sipping his wine thoughtfully, Lamas continued to allow his mind to wander. It lingered on the white woman and her naked body. Why did he crave her more than any woman he had before? Why was she the first woman to satisfy him? He’d made love to hundreds of women. He tried to dismiss the matter, but the image of her form remained branded in his mind. No escaping from that fact. How had she gotten away? Where would she go? By herself she would be easy to recapture. But if the Indian girl guided her, it might be a much more difficult task. Sanchez would find them. If anyone could locate them, it was the Yaqui.

  The desert grew chilly in the hours just before dawn. Justine crouched in a dry wash, her arms wrapped tightly around her body like a cocoon, trying to maintain the little body warmth she had. Her legs had grown numb from stooping so long, but she dared not sit on the desert floor. She knew that there were snakes and insects around. Insects frightened her as much as the reptiles. Once, years before, she had been stung by a scorpion that crawled from under her bed. Her foot became swollen to the size of a melon and pain filled her for days. Now, remembering the incident, she hastily checked the area around her feet.

  Angela had not returned. Hours ago, it seemed, the girl had gestured for her to stay put while she went off on her own. Justine surmised that she intended to search for water. The only fluid they had was from a barrel cactus Angela had slashed open the previous day with Jimmy’s knife. It tasted bitter, Justine recalled, but the mushy pulp sustained them and their horses.

  “Señora Yusteen!” Angela hissed.

  Justine turned in the darkness, her heart racing at the sound of the voice. “Did you find water?”

  Every cramped muscle in her body protested when she rose to her feet. Her spine felt as though it would never be straight again. Erect at last, she hurried toward the sound of Angela’s voice, dragging the reins of her stubborn horse behind her.

  Angela acted engrossed in the towering bluffs. Then she signaled for Justine to follow her. The narrow pathway through the sparse brush led deeper into the canyon, with dizzy-high cliffs above them. The pink light of dawn crept slowly over the towering walls.

  Justine stopped short of the source and blinked. The only indication that water was in the basin were the damp rocks surrounding it. Fed by a small trickle from the foot of the stone face, the small pool looked so inviting, she could hardly believe it existed.

  Whimpering with joy, Justine sank to her knees and lowered her face to sip from it like a cat. Irritably she pushed back the gun belt that dangled from her neck, the pistol digging into her ribs. She relished the cold sting of the icy water on her sun-baked cheeks. The water pained her swollen throat and she had difficulty swallowing; then it ran down her insides, sinking into a hard knot in her empty stomach.

  Her thirst quenched, Justine sank back on her heels and grinned up at Angela. Thank God for the girl. Angela could have left her shivering in the dry wash for Lamas to find, but instead her new friend had returned for her. Sighing, she struggled to her feet and stepped out of the way so that her horse could drink his fill. Then she held the reins of both horses while Angela drank again.

  Shifting the irksome cartridge belt, Justine looked around at the granite bluffs. There was a jackrabbit sitting beside a nearby rock, obviously waiting its turn at the drinking pool.

  Justine looked hungrily at the rabbit, but knew it would not be wise to shoot the gun, not even for food. The sound would only draw attention to their presence. She sighed, wishing they at least had a canteen to fill with water, but even that small luxury was denied them.

  “Yusteen. Vamoose!” Angela turned and gestured toward the north.

  Justine nodded wearily. It was time to ride again. The calves of her legs complained as she mounted, and her back ached as she tried to straighten in the saddle.

  Single file, the women rode out of the canyon and headed across a broad stretch of desert. Justine was long past pangs of hunger. She was weak from the lack of food, and the water she drank sloshed nauseatingly in her rumbling stomach.

  She turned in the saddle to look behind her. There was nothing in the distance. Nothing but the hot wind to sweep the low brush and saw-edged mountains. Perhaps Lamas would not follow them. But she knew that was a frail hope. The man would follow as surely as night followed day. He was too proud, too arrogant to be beaten by a mere woman. And she also knew there was a smoldering attraction there—with him—toward her. Even in the stubbornness of her condition she had begun to realize the change. Animallike, perhaps. Their bizarre relationship had grown into something different than the raw rutting by him the first time. She only knew for certain that the whole dimension of this outlaw Lamas scared her. With her heels, she booted the horse on faster to catch up with Angela.

  Lamas raced Don Marques’s horse back to his hacienda. Whipping and spurring, he crossed the many kilometers with no concern for the poor animal’s condition. It had been reckless to go so fast under starlight, but fury overwhelmed any caution. He dismounted the lathered horse and left it grunting for its breath at the front gate.

  “Leta! You dumb bitch of a housekeeper, where are you?” he shouted, charging up the dark hallway.

  “Sí, Patron?” a subdued voice called out of the darkness.

  “Where is Jimmy?”

  “Gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  The middle-aged woman stood in the lit doorway, wringing her hands in fear. “He ran away after we untied him.”

  “Untied him?”

  “He was tied up in the women’s room.”

  Lamas drew a deep breath. The stupid boy had done exactly what he had been warned not to do; he had messed with the gringo woman. And that whore and the Indian girl had obviously outsmarted that dim-witted, pimple-faced bastard.

  “When we took the meal to the woman’s room,” the housekeeper explained haltingly, “He—he was on the floor. The women were gone. So I untied Jiminez. He swore at us when we ungagged him. I was very afraid, señor.”

  “Yes, you have good reason to be frightened, you stupid old bitch!” Lamas unleashed his temper on the woman. “Go find me some mescal at once.” Still filled with rage, he headed for the dining room, his heels clattering on the floor. There was nothing he could do until daylight. Sanchez and the others would be back at the hacienda by then. He kicked out at a floor vase, sending it crashing against the wall. Next time, you gringo whore, he vowed silently … next time, I shall chain your shapely ass to the wall.

  He sank down on a chair and closed his eyes. He would get that bitch back. She was worth a lot of money. Besides, he was not finished with her supple body. A vision of her smooth skin against his darker skin was enough to send a violent flash of frustration through him. Sanchez would track them down. And he would have his leader’s permission to cut the Indian witch’s throat. She was the one who had led the white woman away. No doubt she cast a spell on that stupid Jimmy too. Señora Stauffer was no match for the harshness of the desert, but the squaw was. Perhaps she would even be a match for Sanchez. No, no. Lamas shook his head. His rat-faced tracker would hunt them down. And then … then Lamas would laugh in the face of the defeated senora.

  Yes, he would laugh.

  Miles north in Arizona, Sam T. rose with the coming dawn. He and his assistants had stopped to rest the horses. Da-yah was cooking beans on a small fire. She wore a dress made of many men’s shirts. Squatted at the small, smokel
ess fire, she studied her cooking pot intently.

  “The major will get us papers?” Too-Gut asked. He leaned against a cottonwood tree, his unblocked hat shading his face. He wore a faded blue noncom’s shirt that came halfway to his knees. His thin pants were tucked down in calf-high Apache boots. Sam T. noted the old repeater in his arms. The gun was like an extension of the Indian, never out of reach.

  “If he can.”

  Too-Gut nodded. “Major plenty big man. Army jumps when he gets mad.”

  Sam pursed his lips and shook his head regretfully. The major had given him no special document that would allow the Chiricahuas to stay with him. In fact, Sam’s own authority as a civilian barely stretched enough to send the shavetail lieutenant away when he threatened Jesus.

  “Major is good man,” Too-Gut said. “Him send paper soon. San Carlos is like a shithouse. Bad place to live. Why can’t we stay in the mountains?”

  Without an answer, he shrugged. Sam T. silently hoped that the Apache was right about those papers. He had never seen this San Carlos, but if this man complained, it must be the pit of the world.

  Jesus returned from watering the horses at a spring. “Where should we go next?”

  “How far away is Verde City from here?” Sam asked.

  “Couple of hours.”

  “Good, I want to go there and talk to that stage agent. Judge Tripp said he might be able to furnish us some descriptions of these men. We could use that. Right now we could walk by them and never know anything.” He studied the ocher-colored pipes of stone on the side of mountain base. A hot, barren country full of stickery plants. The two scouts and Da-yah acted as comfortable in it as the lizards that darted about on the dusty ground. He thought of something else. The hell that poor woman must be having if she was still alive.

  If those men had harmed her … He sighed. Of course they had harmed her. Men who cold-bloodedly shot robbery victims held small quarter with hostages. Only if they hoped for a big ransom, would she remain safe.

  Sam T. and his three assistants rode south. Jesus reminded him of Frederic Remington’s pen-and-ink drawing in the Harper’s Weekly of a Mexican bandit. The barrelchested Too-Gut and his woman made strange-appearing deputies. But he was satisfied that they were veterans of the land, and law enforcement was not too disconnected with their military experience.