“Does the stage agent know much about the gang?” Jesus asked when they mounted up.
“Well, according to Judge Tripp, if the man’s still alive he can give us a complete description of them.” Sam T. reined Big Boy around and booted him out with Jesus’ bay. “Judge said he understood the stage line paid big bounties to informers and they might know something more.”
“I didn’t ask the man,” Jesus began, “but if we find this whole gang, will the major send us help?”
“Jesus …”—Sam T. paused a long time before he finished—“I’m afraid we’re it.” The scout’s small sound of acknowledgment told him enough—he understood.
They rode on in silence. By midday they were back beside the Santa Cruz River, north of Verde City. Sam T. was grateful for the few cottonwoods along the stream. They provided some shade from the blistering sun.
“Verde City is just over the rise,” Jesus said.
“We’d better leave the Apaches here. There might be another army patrol,” Sam T. said.
“Too-Gut, you stay close by,” Sam T. said. “Jesus will come and get you when we’re ready to move on.”
Too-Gut nodded, then he and Da-yah crossed the nearly dry stream. The woman jerked on the packhorse that was lagging behind her. Sam T. watched them go and felt a surge of sympathy. They were people without a home.
Sam T. shook his head, set spurs to the sorrel and followed Jesus toward town.
They rode up the main street. Verde City was a small cluster of adobe buildings with a hotel, a house of ill repute, two saloons that were two stories tall and a smattering of small stores. Halsey and Talbert’s Stage Office looked to be the hub of activity. A wheelwright worked respoking a wagon, a blacksmith fitted a team with shoes. His hammer rang as he forged new shoes, and the smell of burning coal filled the air.
“Could I help you?” a friendly man asked, waving a cigar from the doorway of the stage office.
“We have a mutual friend, I believe,” Sam T. said and dismounted. “Judge Tripp? My name’s Sam T. Mayes, and this is Jesus Morales.”
“How do. Any friend of the judge’s is welcome here. Come on in. I’ve got whiskey and some damned bad coffee inside. Oh, yeah, my name’s Taggett. Marsh Taggett.”
Sam ducked when he followed Taggett through the low doorway. Jesus’ rowels clanged as he came behind Sam. The dusty office was low-ceilinged and Sam had to keep his head bent to prevent scraping it with his hat.
“Whiskey or coffee?” Taggett offered.
“Coffee’s fine. For both of us.”
Taggett looked at Sam and raised his brows. “Mayes, this batch of coffee is damned bad.”
“Coffee’s fine,” Sam repeated. Jesus nodded in agreement.
The three men sat in the cool room, sipping the bitter brew. Taggett reviewed what he knew about the stage robbery.
“This Lamas …” Taggett said, looking at Jesus, “do you know him, Morales?”
“He is a very mean one.”
Sam T. listened silently. Jesus had not mentioned to him that he personally knew the outlaw. The fact bothered Sam until he realized that most likely Jesus had said it simply to keep Taggett talking.
“Well, this Lamas and his gang went back across the border after the robbery. Mrs. Stauffer and the Indian girl were alive then.”
“You’re sure?” Sam demanded of the stage line manager.
“Yes, but that was several days ago. Someone saw both women and they didn’t look too abused. Grundy’s stepdaughter Angela and the Stauffer woman from Tucson.”
The words “too abused” conjured up an ugly image that filled Sam with helpless rage. Those outlaws had to be brought to justice. A border was no excuse to allow criminals to do as they pleased.
Taggett’s grim voice captured Sam T.’s attention again. He listened carefully to every scrap of information that Taggett gave them. He became impressed with the man’s knowledge of these elusive criminals.
“Lamas has a hacienda in Sonora. They call it Los Palmos, means ‘palms.’” Tagget waved his index finger at them to make his point. “It’s well guarded. You can’t ride within fifty miles of it. Men have tried and their bones are bleaching the ground down there now.”
“What about the men who ride with Lamas?” Sam T. asked. “Have you learned anything about them?”
“Yeah, a little. Grundy told me before he died that one was a tall Texan called Ezra Black. He’s a horse thief. A Texan who’s handy with a gun and he likes women. Someone saw him in Nogales this week.”
“Jesus?” Sam turned to him. “Do you know Black?”
“Only by sight. I have seen him in Tucson, maybe a few times. But I didn’t know he was a gang member.”
“See, that’s their secret,” Taggett said and shook his head in disgust. “They meet and strike and don’t stay together like that damn Clanton bunch does. You two get really greedy for more bounties, you can go clean them Clantons out.”
Sam T. nodded to indicate he heard the man and shared a private look with Jesus. Taggett thought they were bounty hunters—good.
“Does Black know you?” Sam T. asked Jesus.
“No. I am not a famous person.”
“Good.” They laughed before Sam turned to Taggett. “Well, what about the sheriff?”
“Saguaro County doesn’t have a real sheriff,” Taggett said grimly. “Oh, they’ve got one, but he spends all his time in Tombstone worrying about his mining interest or his politics.”
“Sounds as if you aren’t too impressed with the man.”
“Impressed? With our stages being robbed, two mining experts shot and a society woman kidnapped? Hell, Mayes, that driver died and so did Grundy, and it ain’t easy to find someone to run that stage stop between Nogales and Coyote Wells. And that tub of lard Sheriff Wainwright and his grubby deputy haven’t done one damned thing about it. Not one thing.”
“Wonder where Stauffer was headed,” Sam mused aloud.
“Word has it that he was on his way to see Sheriff Wainwright. I’m not so sure about that.”
“If he was going to Tombstone, why did he come this way and not the Benson route?” Jesus asked.
Taggett frowned and rubbed his chin. “Good question, unless he was avoiding being seen. I looked through some papers that were found scattered around the stage stop after the robbery. They were a report on a Tombstone mine. I gave them to Wainwright’s deputy to pass on to him, since they had the sheriff’s name on one of them.”
“I see,” Sam T. said slowly. He didn’t actually understand all the implications, but for the moment he let the matter pass. “Taggett, you know anything about a gun shipment?”
Taggett frowned for a moment. “No, but we do sometimes haul that kind of freight.”
Sam decided to let the matter drop. “Well, I appreciate your help. Jesus and I need to get moving.”
“There’s a two-hundred-dollar reward for the gang from my company,” Taggett said. “Twenty-five a piece for those gang members. But a hundred for Lamas.”
Sam rose from the chair. Rewards seldom brought in criminals. They did produce information occasionally, but usually from some informer hoping for a percentage. He looked down at Taggett with a sudden thought. “Has there been any word about a reward for Mrs. Stauffer?”
“Strange you mention that, Mayes. Someone from Tombstone put out some feelers. He’s offered a thousand dollars for her safe return.”
“Who’s he? A family friend?”
“Beats me, Mayes. Could be a friend. He’s a rich and powerful man. Name’s Dan Narrimore.”
“Why would a friend offer that much money?”
Taggett shrugged. “Narrimore’s a slick one. If he intends to pay that kind of money, there must be something in it for him.” Taggett stood and followed them the door. “You two aim to take on the whole Border Gang?” His voice was filled with skepticism.
Sam looked at him through narrowed eyes, stung by the man’s doubts. “We’ll handle it.”
As they rode back to where they had left the Apaches, Sam T. was mired in thought. The closer they got to the Border Gang, the farther away they seemed. The day was practically gone. They’d have to make camp for the night and start with first light. Even the big sorrel needed some rest. The pony Jesus rode had to be spurred to move.
“How far to this place of Lamas’s?” he asked Jesus.
“I have never been there.” He shook his head.
Sam searched the growing twilight. He had a feeling they were being watched.
When Jesus gave a sharp quail’s whistle, Sam T. realized that the Apaches were returning. He seriously considered how he and his three assistants could go up against a whole gang of killers. Looked like, before long, he’d see how strong a force he had gathered for the role of Territorial Marshal. On the other hand, he’d be damned if he was going to give up.
Justine Stauffer had never eaten rattlesnake. She was not sure that she could force it past her tongue. Yet the desert beans that Angela had gathered proved a meager offering for her hollow stomach. She needed some kind of sustenance.
Earlier, Justine’s horse shied from the sidewinder’s buzz. Instantly the brown-eyed Angela handed Justine her reins and slipped from her horse. Within minutes, the snake was smashed with a rock, dressed and packed away for their evening meal.
Marveling at her companion’s skill, Justine handed back Angela’s reins and once again they headed north. There was still no sign of pursuit. They had traveled a great distance on their spent horses. Whenever possible they stopped under a rimrock’s shade to rest them, then walked on foot for miles, leading the weary animals. Angela constantly checked the ground they passed over, brushing it several times with a branch of smelly greasewood to erase their tracks.
The only signs of life were lizards and an occasional jackrabbit that they didn’t dare shoot for food, lest the sound of the shot give their location away to any pursuers.
Twice they stopped so that Angela could cut open a barrel cactus. Justine was grateful for the alkaline-tasting mush. She knew had it not been for girl’s skill in the desert, she would have long since perished.
Later in the evening Justine squatted to watch Angela start a fire. It took a long time, since they had no matches. The Indian girl patiently used a length of material torn from her ragged skirt hem as drive belt to twist a stick back and forth, until finally the friction at the point caught some tiny tinder on fire.
Forced into this animallike existence, Justine scowled at her gritty skin and sour-smelling clothes. The insides of her thighs were rubbed raw from riding astride the horse, and her neck was sore from the heavy cartridge belt that she wore like a necklace. When she imagined what she must look like, she had to force back tears of self-pity.
Angela cooked the rattlesnake slowly. The wonderful aroma of the cooked meat made Justine dizzy. She gratefully accepted the hot food from Angela’s fingers. Chewing slowly, she tried to shut her mind to the source of meat she was eating. To her amazement, Justine found the meat sweet and flaky. It flooded her mouth with saliva. She waited eagerly for her next bite.
A coyote howled in the distance. Only two days previously the same sound would have driven Justine to panic. But now she shrugged, deciding the animal was probably after a desert rat or rabbit. She did not begrudge him his food. Never again, she vowed, would she look down upon beggars or bums. And when she finally escaped this mess, she never wanted to be dirty or hungry again.
“Good food,” she complimented Angela.
The girl grunted and nodded cheerfully. She punched Justine on the arm and muttered some Indian words.
“Yes,” Justine said as if she understood. “We make one helluva pair.”
Then they both began to laugh. It started with a giggle, then a chuckle that ran on to hysterical amusement. Justine plopped her bottom on the ground and shook with mirth.
Finally, weak with laughter, she rubbed her fists into her eyes. At least the tears of mirth soothed her burning pupils. She wished there were a way to repay Angela for her kindness and help, but she knew there wasn’t.
The coyote howled again and its mate answered. Justine settled her back against a warm rock. She dared not lie down on the ground, even though she had finally given in enough to sit upon it. The desire to curl up with her head on her hands was strong, but the image of the snake prevented her from taking that chance. A cold chill swept over her as she recalled the coiled serpent, and for a moment nausea rose inside her. To think she had eaten the snake! She hugged herself for warmth and dropped off into an uneasy sleep. It was only their second night out in the desert.
Lamas became furious. He stalked the house, peering out to the east for signs of the returning gardener and Sanchez. Where in the hell were they?
At dawn he saddled Don Marques’s horse and searched about for his own horses. But he found no sign of them. The borrowed gelding had drawn up lame. Lamas blamed himself. His wild ride home on the animal the previous night no doubt did the damage. He headed back on the limping horse, which only added to his fury.
“That Jimmy will pay for this!” Lamas vowed. After he brought the Stauffer woman back, he would go find the stupid boy. Then he would dig a hole neck deep, making sure that it was near an anthill before he placed that blessed Jimmy inside it. A faint wisp of dust appeared in the east. Lamas squinted; perhaps it was a dust-devil wind. No. Someone was coming at last. He could see the rider. It was Sanchez. Grinding his teeth with impatience, Lamas looked across the heat-wave-distorted desert. Now, you white witch, he promised silently, I will catch you and you will pay for the the trouble you have caused me. No one, no one makes a fool of Lamas! His eyes gleamed as he envisioned himself stripping Justine’s white body. His hand would land heavily on her round behind, and then …
Sam T. and his small posse rode out of Pima County into Saguaro County. Morales led them over a cut in the range of hills. Sam T. wanted to meet Sheriff Wainwright, the man in whose jurisdiction the crime had been committed.
“You said you haven’t been to Lamas’s hacienda Los Palmos?” Sam asked Jesus as they rode single file up a narrow canyon
“No. Perhaps Too-Gut has been there. It is a very dry land to cross.”
Sam T. turned in the saddle and looked at the Apache. “Too-Gut, have you been to this man Lamas’s place? They call it Los Palmos.”
“Los Palmos. Way down in Sonora?” He made a wave with his hand like he meant in the south. When Sam T. nodded, he continued, “Once, when I was a young brave. The Apaches traded with the old man who owned the place then.”
Sam turned his attention back to guiding his horse down the narrow trail. Over his shoulder he asked, “Can we ride there after I see the sheriff?”
“Two hard days,” Too Gut said.
They stopped to rest along the San Pedro River—a shallow, wandering stream that afforded some shade under the rustling cottonwoods, a green oasis in the brown grassland. They watered their animals.
“We wait here,” Too-Gut said. “If you need help, we come fast.”
“All right. We won’t be long. I want to head there as soon as we return.” Sam T. started to mount when the Apache shouted at him, “Get a rifle for her.” Too-Gut pointed his own long gun at Da-yah. Then a smile crossed his copper face. “Don’t worry; she won’t shoot you.”
Jesus laughed aloud. Sam T. looked from Too-Gut to Jesus.
“I wasn’t really worried about her shooting me,” he said dryly.
“We know. What Too-Gut meant, Sam T.,” Jesus explained, “is that Da-yah is a good shot, and we’ll need all our guns if we go to this Lamas’s place.”
“Yes. I agree,” Sam said. If he had misgivings about the bland-faced woman in battle, it still was no excuse to refuse to get her a weapon. “I’ll buy her a rifle.”
“Good.” Too-Gut grunted. Da-yah i
gnored the conversation concerning her.
Sam T. set out in a short lope with Jesus beside him. He hoped a talk with the lawman in charge of the stage holdup investigation might help settle some more things about the gang. He also had to buy a woman a rifle. He sighed wryly. His new job certainly had a lot of intriguing sideshows to it. At least it wasn’t as dull as his desk job.
Tombstone was sleeping midday. A quiet, dusty town with only the sounds of mine machinery pounding and elevator cables whining. Rows of parked ore freight wagons all over. The main street otherwise looked deserted. A cur dog barked a welcome.
Sam T. and Jesus drew up in front of the jail. A man lounged in the doorway. Dressed in a yellowed Union jacket with galluses to hold up wash-worn canvas britches, the man spat on the boardwalk.
Sam raised his eyebrows in mild disapproval at the man’s careless appearance. Obviously he was not the sheriff, since his tarnished badge read DEPUTY.
“Sheriff here?” Sam asked.
The man squinted up at them, then turned away insolently to spit. “Who’s asking?”
“An officer of the court,” Sam said bluntly as he dismounted.
“Well, you’re looking at the law in this county.”
Sam was not impressed by the statement. “I want all the details on the stage robbery and kidnapping.”
“And just what are you going to do about it?” The man’s tobacco-stained lips curled in a sneer.
Sam was less than three yards from the man, and it was only by exerting absolute control that he did not grab his collar and shake him until his yellow teeth rattled in his head.
“Have you done anything about the crime?” he asked pointedly.
“Hell, there ain’t nothing I can do. They’re in Mexico. Seems they don’t honor this badge over there in Sonora.” He pointed to Jesus. “Just ask him.”
Lawless Land Page 18
