“Have you heard of a request for a ransom?” Sam persisted his questioning.
“I’ve heard lots of things.”
Sam T. looked down at the boardwalk and clenched his teeth. Patience, he knew, was not his strong point and he was having a hell of a hard time reining it in. Drawing a deep breath that should have been a warning to the man, he raised his head.
“Mister, I’ve been here a good while and I haven’t heard a damned thing worth my time. Now, what do you know about these outlaws?” He took a step closer, towering over the slovenly man.
“You’re kind of bristly, ain’t you?” the man said with a put-on smile and squinting against the sun.
Sam heard Jesus shifting in his saddle. Obviously the scout expected him to flatten the deputy, at any minute. Sam continued, “You just leave personalities out of it, Deputy, and start talking about these outlaws.”
“What the hell? You ain’t going to do no more than I did. I told you that them bastards are in Sonora. They’re probably having a good old time drinking tequila, and by now they’ve sold that woman to white slavers. Just what in the hell do you expect me to do about that?”
“This woman’s husband. What was his business coming here?”
“That’s the sheriff’s business.”
“What do you mean?”
The deputy spat off to the side and resumed his position in the doorway. “He told me that him and Stauffer had private business.”
“Where is the sheriff now?”
“Gone.”
“Damn it!” Sam T. swore and raised a fist, his eyes blazing. Anger billowed inside him so that he almost choked on it. “If you don’t find some civil words, I’m going to jerk that tongue out of your brassy mouth. Now, I’m asking you again. Where’s the sheriff?”
The man sobered instantly, realizing Sam T. was dangerously close to losing his temper. “I told you, mister, he’s gone on some business, I guess. But when he’s away, I’m in charge.”
“Yes; I can see that,” Sam said with an edge of sarcasm. “What’s your name?”
“Dormer. Clyde Dormer.”
“I’ll remember it.” Sam started to leave, stopped and turned. “When do you expect the sheriff back?”
“Couple of days, I reckon. You can check back then.”
“We will, Deputy, we will.” He unhitched his horse. “Jesus, we’ve got supplies to get.” His scout nodded at him and reined his horse away.
“Hey!” Dormer called after them. “You and that greaser plan to go down there? Don’t tell anyone that I didn’t warn you. You’ll be buzzard bait. Them buzzards down there are hungry too.”
Sam T. ignored the man, but grunted in disgust at their having wasted all that time. When he glanced over, Jesus looked about to laugh. They rode up the street.
“That man rattled you pretty bad, no?”
“Did it show?”
“Show?” Jesus slapped his large saddle horn with the palm of his hand. “Sí, it showed.”
“His kind of law irritates the hell out of me. No wonder this territory needs marshals. Let’s get that rifle and some supplies. What do thosel Apaches like?”
“Whiskey.”
“Forget that.”
“Candy?” Jesus suggested. “I forgot that it is against the law for Indians to have whiskey.”
“It’s not that,” Sam T. explained. “We’ll need clear heads to find those outlaws. We can drink whiskey afterward.” He wondered if there would be an afterward. If Dormer was right, then that poor woman was already on her way to Mexico City. That thought did not soothe his disposition.
Before Sam T. and Jesus left town, Sam made a trip to the telegrapher’s office. He sent off a wire to the major, requesting papers for his two loyal Apaches.
CHAPTER 11
THE insides of Justine’s thighs were on fire from chafing against the saddle leather. The muscles in her arms turned rock-hard, and despite the floppy straw hat, the sun still scorched her face. She dismounted stiffly, clung to the saddle, until her sea legs grew steady enough to support her weight.
Four ugly buzzards circled above her. She averted her gaze from the big birds and spotted Angela. The Indian girl had ridden up a barren slope to scan the country beyond them.
Justine shaded her eyes with her hand, too weary to even think about their pursuers. She dropped down and sat on the ground, with her hands spread out to support herself. Her horse blew out a weary breath that sent a whirling spiral of dust up Justine’s nose and into her mouth. She spat it away with indifference.
There was no more snake to eat, and only a few shriveled prickly pears and alkali-tasting cactus to sustain them. The warm pulpy plant soured on her empty stomach, nearly gagging her. Only the moisture she had derived from it made the chewy substance worthwhile. In a moment of desperation, she smeared the pulp on her scorched face and received momentary relief on her burning skin.
“Yusteen!” Angela shouted and motioned with her arm. “Andelay.”
The girl pointed east and seemed anxious for Justine to join her on the rise. Wearily she pushed to her feet and clumsily mounted her horse. She dug her heels into the tired pony’s side, wondering what was wrong now. What did Angela want to show her that was so important it couldn’t wait until she had rested for a moment? She was surprised her stamina had lasted this long. If they didn’t find some kind of sanctuary soon, Justine thought with a sigh, she wouldn’t know what to do.
When she joined Angela, the girl grinned at her. What for?
“Agua,” Angela said.
“Water?” Justine croaked. “Where? Where’s the water?” She wanted to drown herself in it and put an end to this miserable fugitive existence.
Angela led the way down the slope. Beyond the next hill, Justine blinked her eyes in disbelief at what she beheld. Before them stood a crumbling wall and behind it rose glorious green trees. The closer they drew to the verdant island, the harder she prayed it wasn’t another mirage. Dear God, don’t … When she opened her sore eyes again, she expected it to have dissolved from her vision. No, it hadn’t. It was an abandoned hacienda.
Although the walls were fallen-down stretches of rock and adobe, the place appeared to be a real oasis. The pool was a square-shaped tank skimmed over with a light layer of green moss.
Undaunted by the scum, Justine dismounted quickly and stumbled toward the water. Impatiently, she struggled to push the gun belt over her head and remove her shoes. Without hesitating, she plunged fully clothed into the water, creating a great splash that dampened the surrounding rocks and dry ground. The water felt warm, like a soothing cradle of comfort for her shattered body. Justine luxuriated in the cloudy liquid, allowing it to saturate her clothes. She cupped her hands and bathed her heated face; then, making a spout with her hands, she sprayed the tepid water over her hot head.
Angela led the horses to the water’s edge and stood watching in amusement at her companion’s antics. A delighted smile spread across her brown face as she nodded her approval over their discovery.
“Come on in, Angela,” Justine invited with a throaty laugh. Playfully, she splashed the girl. Angela giggled and stepped back.
“Uno momento—” the girl pleaded and pointed to the grass in back where she was taking the horses. Justine agreed, then turned back to the luxurious pleasures of bathing.
After the horses drank their fill, Angela led them through an arched wall toward the green trees.
At last, weak with exhaustion, Justine crawled out of the pool and sat on the rock wall that surrounded the hacienda. The sun immediately began to dry out her clothes and hair. She ran her fingers through the long tangled curls and wished for a comb. Half asleep and relaxed, she gazed around at the weathered hacienda. Taking care to spread her skirt over her knees, she held it away from her legs so it would dry quickly. It seemed odd that anyone would abandon a wonderful hacienda like this. At one time it must have been a delightful place. Even now some of the graceful structure remained intact, i
ndicating people of good breeding once inhabited the welcome oasis.
A frown drew her brows together. Where had Angela gotten to? It had been some time now since she had taken the horses around the building toward the shady trees.
Reluctantly, Justine rose, pulled the still-damp dress material away from her skin where she sat on it and moved toward her weapon, which she had left by the pool. The hated gun belt lay beside her shoes.
The sound of approaching horses startled her. She searched around for Angela. But there was no sign of the girl. Her heart pounded in apprehension. Justine moved quickly toward the gun belt.
The drum of the hooves drew closer. To her attuned ears, it sounded like an army of bandits descending upon her. Moaning in fear, she fell upon the revolver and wrestled it from the holster. She had no idea if she could actually pull the trigger. But a vision of Lamas’s face, obsessed with his desire for her body, overwhelmed her. If it was Lamas riding to the hacienda, she could imagine herself putting a bullet through his black heart.
With hands that trembled uncontrollably, Justine held the wavering Colt at chest level. Where, oh, where could Angela be? Three men rode into view. Justine squinted her eyes, trying to see their faces beneath their dusty hats. She knew immediately that Lamas was not among them. None of the riders looked faintly familiar. For that she offered up a small silent prayer, but did not lower the gun.
“Mrs. Stauffer! Thank God, you’re alive!” the tall man in the lead said, with what sounded like heartfelt relief. “Dan Narrimore sent us to find you. The name’s Sid. This here’s Pete and Red,” he said, jerking his thumb behind him at the other men.
“D-Dan sent you?” Justine echoed. Perhaps she was hearing things. Had the man said Dan Narrimore? Was he actually her savior? She lowered the gun barrel and looked in shocked disbelief at her rescuers.
Sid dismounted in a fluid motion and ran toward her with his arms out. Why did he look so worried … ?
“Thank God. Thank God.” She reached for this wonderful cowboy’s hug, but her arms were too short and she piled on the ground in a black swirling dust devil.
Lamas was furious. He shaded his eyes against the sun. The wide sombrero on his head did little to shield him from the scorching blaze. The horse beneath him stomped a hind foot impatiently. The gelding was one he borrowed from Sanchez, since Don Marques’s fine horse had gone lame. A whole day had been lost by going to Sanchez’s place to get this mount. Sarge was still not back from his drinking binge. Black was out of his reach. Lamas felt the women drifting farther away from him all the time. There were still no signs to indicate their passage. The stupid women picked the driest direction to travel. Buzzards would probably be the only thing to mark their demise.
No doubt he had lost a thousand-dollar ransom. Still, he refused to give up the chase. The memory of his hands upon Justine’s silky skin consumed him in a fever that fried his brain. He was not finished with that bitch.
In the distance, Lamas could see Sanchez returning; the Yaqui had ridden ahead in search of more tracks. Perhaps he found something this time.
“They have passed this way, amigo,” Sanchez reported.
“You found signs?”
Sanchez shrugged and looked toward the north. “Perhaps they made it to the old Roble hacienda. It is many miles to go without water, but that squaw may have found a way.”
“Quit talking in riddles! Do you think they could make it there or not? If these women are still alive, I want them back!”
“Sí. If they are still alive, I will find them for you.”
“Your mangy hide may depend on that.”
Sanchez did not acknowledge the threat. He turned his horse and set out in a fast trot toward the north. In no hurry, Lamas rode after him, wondering if the women could really make it so far without food or water. Perhaps by nightfall he would have her in his blankets again.
Sam T. found the scrub-juniper- and yucca-studded high desert of the border interesting. Tall grass brushed the belly of Big Boy, and a fat whitetail deer spooked at their approach. He and Jesus rode the stage route along the border en route to Nogales. The foursome had split several hours before. The Apaches went south to scout Lama’s hacienda.
Too-Gut assured Sam T. the two of them could scout Lamas’s headquarters easier and with less chance of being detected than four could ride up and do it. Too-Gut and Da-yah could slip in close enough to learn the fortresses’s strengths and weaknesses. After finding out what they needed to know, the Apaches were to meet Sam and Jesus at a prearranged place southwest of Nogales. The plan made good sense, so they split up.
Jesus thought he and Sam should check in Nogales for any news of Mrs. Stauffer. Perhaps someone was already on their way to ransom her. Maybe there would be more information on the Border Gang there too. It was a timeconsuming plan, yet, when Sam weighed his small law force against Lamas’s, he realized it would be wiser to wait on the Apaches’ report concerning the strength of Lamas’s army. They had to have some idea what they were up against. The many unknowns about this situation niggled him as the two rode along.
“Sam T.,” Jesus spoke hesitantly as they began to cross a narrow dry wash, “is your badge good in Mexico?”
Sam shrugged. Deep inside he had the same reservations that Jesus shared, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “It doesn’t really matter, Jesus. We’re going to get that gang and bring them back for trial.”
“Sí.”
When the two rode into Nogales in the late afternoon, the border town bustled with freighters.
“We can go over to my friend’s cantina,” Jesus suggested.
“We’d better put these horses up first; they’re getting a little run-down.”
“I know of such a place. Come.”
Sam T. ignored the chatter of begging children who ran along beside their horses. Jesus’ coarse Spanish words sent them scurrying away.
“There is a certain lady I know who will help us,” Jesus said.
Sam smiled. “Oh?”
Jesus looked at him and blinked, then he laughed. “Yes, she is in the business, but that is not what I meant, amigo. Rosita knows everything that happens. She will have some information for us on those outlaws.”
“Well, just remember all we need is information,” Sam reminded him.
They drew up before a small wagon yard. Jesus was laughing under his breath. “Sí, Sam T. Only information this time.”
After leaving their horses with the livery, they walked down a narrow street to a cantina. Jesus stepped inside. Sam T. followed, ducking his head to avoid the low rafters.
A buxom woman of about forty shrieked a welcome to Jesus. Spanish words seemed to tumble over themselves as she and the Mexican scout hugged each other. Sam stood by silently, glancing around at the patrons.
When Jesus had finished greeting his lady friend, he introduced her to his boss.
“Rosita, this is Senor Sam T. Mayes.”
She smiled, her eyes admiring his tall form and broad shoulders. “My pleasure, Senor Mayes. Come. Rosita has tequila, beer, whatever you would like.” She led them to a small table in the corner, then spoke curtly to a thin-faced bartender to bring them some beer.
Seated between the men at the table, she studied Sam’s face for a moment. “You are not here for pleasure, no? What do you need?” she asked in a soft whisper.
Jesus looked around; then, keeping his voice low, he asked, “Were is the gringo called Black?”
“He rode out.”
“When?”
“I don”t know. Maybe two, three days ago. I last heard that he rode out in a big hurry.”
“Why?”
Rosita shrugged, then her eyes blazed as if remembering something unpleasant. “If you want to know, then go ask that little bastard Jimmy. He is over at the Rojo. I won’t let him in my place.”
“He is a gang member too?” Jesus asked.
“Sure. Worthless—” The curl of her lip showed her contempt for him.
&
nbsp; “Are you sure?” Sam T. asked. He felt his pulse quicken at the prospect of so easily capturing a member of the gang. To have someone to interrogate too enthused him.
“Of course I am sure. Rosita knows everything that happens in this town.” She swung her arms behind both of them and then hung her fingers familiarly on their shoulders.
Sam T. sipped on his glass of beer, looked at the woman over the rim. He frowned thoughtfully. “You know anything about a shipment of rifles?”
The woman’s brows rose in surprise. “Rifles?” She pursed her lips as if trying to remember. Slowly, she nodded her head. “Sí. A dealer ordered them for a secret customer. A hundred new Winchesters. But they have not arrived.”
Sam T. shrugged. His expression clearly telegraphed to Jesus that he did not want to say any more about the rifles to her.
“What about a ransom for the Stauffer woman?” Sam asked, abruptly changing the subject. “You heard anything about that?”
Rosita nodded. “Yes, there is a thousand dollars reward for Señora Stauffer’s safe return.”
Sam frowned, wondering if the woman had misunderstood him. “Did Lamas send that word?”
“Oh, no, señor! A man in Tombstone offered the money to anyone who found her—alive.”
“Who is the man?”
“His name is Narrimore. He had some pistoleros out there looking for her.”
Sam recalled that the stage line operator Taggett said that Narrimore had offered a reward. He wondered what this man Narrimore wanted with Mrs. Stauffer. Family friend? And what would he be doing with hired guns? If Narrimore’s men located Justine at the hacienda, they might try to shoot it out, getting the woman killed in the process.
“What about this Jimmy?” he leaned over and asked Jesus. Options kept rollng over in his mind. What would be the best way to arrest him and interrogate him about the gang? They had to be inconspicuous and not rile up the Mexican authorities.
“I can find him, Sam T.,” Jesus said confidently.
Lawless Land Page 19
