A scream that ended in a gurgling sound awoke Justine. She jerked up, her heart thundering against her breast. She peered in the darkness beyond the red embers of the fire. Her skin prickled in fear; she sensed death, looking at the crumbling hacienda.
Shots rang out in the night. Fiery tracers from a gun barrel flashed in the darkness. Then there was silence, a heavy, uneasy stillness that filled Justine with icy fear. A rush of desert wind swept over her face, bringing a chill. She leaned back on her elbows, uncertain whether she should fling back her blanket and run or lie there. as if asleep.
Sid appeared suddenly and crouched by her side. He spoke in a low, urgent whisper. “Either Lamas found us or it’s the Apaches. But the way them Apaches hate the night, I can’t believe it’s them. Whoever it is, they’ve got Red. I’m sorry, ma’am, but we need to ride out of here.”
“Can’t we—I mean, won’t we be in more danger riding in the dark?”
“Ma’am, I ain’t sure. All I know is somebody’s found us and they ain’t friendly. Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t afraid of facing any man, but this night fighting is different.”
A man approached. Justine sucked in her breath, her eyes widening.
It was Pete. He knelt down on the other side of the fire. “What are we going to do, Sid?” he asked with an edge of impatience.
“Get out of here come sunup,” Sid said.
“Yeah,” Pete muttered. “If we live that long.”
“Just keep your eyes peeled.”
Justine threw back the covers. Fully dressed, she still shivered in the cool night air. Withdrawing the heavy six-gun from her holster, she slipped the cartridge belt over her shoulder. How much longer, she wondered, until dawn? She didn’t want to risk speaking, in case it gave away her position to Lamas or whoever was out there.
Surely Angela had not killed Red. No, Angela would have realized by now that these were good men. Yet she had run away. Perhaps the Indian girl did not trust anyone.
The warmth from the blanket on her shoulder did not offer Justine any comfort. She hugged the material around her, trying to slow her pounding heart. Staring through the wall of darkness, she prayed that Lamas was not out there somewhere, ready to take her back to his hateful hacienda. She would never submit to him again. He could beat, even threaten to kill her, but never again would he pleasure himself with her body. Oh, dear God, she prayed, let help come soon.
Lamas dozed against a rock that still retained some of the past day’s warmth. At the sound of leather soles approaching, he opened his eyes and peered keenly into the darkness.
Sanchez’s small figure was silhouetted against the dying campfire. “One is dead; I cut his throat.”
“Good, but they will be on their guard now. Sleep a few hours and we will take them in the morning.”
“Sí, Lamas.”
Strike and withdraw like a swordsman, Lamas mused to himself. Tomorrow the woman would be his once more to fondle and ravish. To punish too. When he tired of her, perhaps he would take her to Mexico City. She would bring him much gold there. And if he could trick the rich gringo Narrimore out of his reward … There must be a way. He was a good planner. He drew in a deep breath, then wrinkled his nose in disgust. A strong disgusting odor of sweat and horse clung to his silky shirt.
“Did you hear the quail call, patron?” Sanchez asked softly.
“Yes. Why?”
“There are Apaches all around us.” The Yaqui, with his rifle in hand, squatted beside Lamas. He swiveled on his toes to search for them.
“What?” Lamas hissed. He moved slow-like until he too squatted beside his tracker. A cold chill ran up his arms under the shirt’s material
“Sí. The rooster quail does not call so late at night.”
Lamas held his pistol ready. The Apaches would die if they came upon him. He was ready for them. They would find out that they had not chosen some easy prey.
“Sanchez!” Lamas whispered. “I hear horses.”
Sanchez did not reply at first. Then he spoke. “Sí, Don Lamas. Those were our horses. The Apaches stole them.”
Lamas stood up, kicked at a pebble and ground his teeth. Those red bastards would pay for this. The retreating hoofbeats faded into the night. He cursed them repeatedly in Spanish. First the women had stolen his horses and now Apaches were stealing them. Was there no justice? He was a man of means and station in this country, not some common peon. It was not right! They would all pay for such insolence.
“Now we must finish off those men and take her,” Lamas said, realizing the dilemma they were in. He straightened and brushed the dirt from his britches. “We need their horses to ride.”
“Sí, Lamas. I’ll go kill another one,” Sanchez said, obviously trying placate his leader.
“Do it and be quick. It will be dawn in a few hours.” He waved the man on.
Lamas narrowed his eyes with frustrated rage. When he got revenge on all those he hated, there would be many bodies to feed the vultures. After this was over, they would wax fat on the corpses he would leave behind.
Sam T. paced across the dry wash for the twelfth time. He threw a sharp look at Jesus, who stood in the shade of a scrub tree. With Jimmy incarcerated in the Nogales jail in Arizona, they awaited Too-Gut’s return:
The surprised town marshal in Nogales accepted Sam’s John Doe warrant. He did not demand any further explanation and agreed to keep Jimmy in custody until Sam called for him. But the arrest of the young outlaw was a pitiful step compared to what he still had to do to end the Border Gang’S reign of terror. Sam felt that he was getting nowhere.
“Someone is coming,” Jesus hissed. Apparently he had heard horses from his position on the bank of the wash.
Sam peered through the early morning light and saw Da-yah coming on horseback through a thicket. She led two unfamiliar horses.
“Sam, come quick,” she said, bounding out of the saddle. “Too-Gut is watching the bad ones. Two men have the white woman, but the Indian girl is dead.”
“What? Who killed the girl?” Sam T. asked, jerking tight his girth on Big Boy to get ready to ride.
“Lamas must have,” Da-yah said flatly. “The men with the lady are white men. Cowboys.”
“Who are they?”
Da-yah shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Good men or bad men?” Sam T. asked, mounting up.
“One with her is plenty good.” She nodded to make her point. “He takes care of her.”
Jesus rode toward her and took the two spare horses’ leads for her. Sam T. waited for Da-yah to remount.
Good news at last. Mrs. Stauffer was still alive. Too-Gut was near her, but what could he do alone? Who, Sam T. wondered, were the good cowboys? There was no sense in asking questions; they had some riding to do.
“How far?” he asked Da-yah. Rocks clattered beneath their horses’ hooves as they scrambled up the steep bank to the desert floor.
“Hard ride. Maybe half a day.”
He finally felt better about the situation than he had in some time. At least now he could take some positive action. Da-yah knew where Mrs. Stauffer was, and Too-Gut would do all he could to protect her. That poor woman must have been through hell by this time. Sam urged the big gelding on to keep up with the tireless Apache woman.
Hot air rushed over his face as he pushed Big Boy. The smell of creosote in the desert was heady. The thought of their closing in on these outlaws had cleared his senses.
Ella Devereaux’s secret meeting with Senator Green was to be held a short ways off the road to Iron Creek. She waited beside the surrey in the bright sun. Out of habit, she jerked up the front of her dress and corset. Birds sang nearby and the gentle wind made the temperature pleasant. A good place to meet, in this meadow, far enough off the road to escape the curious eyes of onlookers. In her dress pocket was a copy of the telegram Green wanted.
ARRESTED FIRST BORDER GANG MEMBER—JAILED IN NOGALES—SAM T.
This was all the proof Green neede
d that Sterling and Bowen had set up a secret force of lawmen quite to the contrary of the legislature’s wishes. She walked back and forth through the small blue flowers and grasses in her soft dogskin slippers. Where was that potbellied Green? It must be past two o’clock.
A few minutes later, he appeared on horseback, and when he drew close, he bounded from the saddle. She raised her eyebrows at his athletics, then took the blanket from the buggy seat and the hamper of food and drink she had brought along.
“Hi, Ella,” he said and hurried over to walk beside her.
“How have you been, Arthur?”
“Busy. You did get that proof and bring it with you?” he huffed.
“Yes,” she said and handed him the basket to hold while she spread the blanket on the ground.
“You always are so lovely,” he cooed. “My, my, food and whiskey, and, of course, lovely you.”
She turned and winked mischievously at the man. Arthur must be in his fifties, she decided. Ella once observed his tintype of a wife who looked humorless enough to have a pole up her ass. Certainly Mrs. Green did not appear to be a picnic person.
The blanket spread, she took the basket from him and knelt to arrange things. She began to unload the various articles. Fried chicken wrapped in cloth napkins. Hot bread still warm to her touch. Butter in a secure bowl. German potato salad—
“May I read it?” he asked, like a small kid seeking candy from his mother. At her nod, he eagerly joined her on the blanket and she drew the yellow sheet from her pocket for him.
“Yes, yes,” he said, sounding impressed, reading it to himself beside her. Then he threw his arms around her and began shouting, “I’ve got him! I’ve got him!”
“It is what you wanted?”
“Oh, hell, yes, let’s celebrate.”
“Sure,” she said and looked down in mild shock as he began to undo his pants. Oh, no, her idea to celebrate was … The hard ground under the blanket held little appeal for her. She’d better get ready. Obviously the little man beside her on his knees, shrugging down his trousers, was ready for his part.
CHAPTER 12
DAWN appeared as a tiny slip of pink on the distant, saw-toothed horizon.. Justine held the horses’ reins and waited. She felt uneasy; they planned to leave shortly, but she wanted to go on. To her relief, when she glanced up, she saw Sid carrying two canteens over his shoulder and hurrying to rejoin her. His eyes continually scanned the surrounding area in search of any threatening forces.
“Come on, Pete,” Sid said over his shoulder. He placed the canteen straps on the saddle horn and called out to his partner again.
There was no answer from Pete. A look of annoyance crossed Sid’s face. He glanced at Justine and shrugged. She noticed that he grew more apprehensive with every moment.
“Come on, let’s ride,” he said impatiently. “Go ahead and mount up, Mrs. Stauffer,” he urged when she hesitated.
“But where’s Pete?”
Sid shook his head. “I’m not sure. Will you please get in the saddle, ma’am?”
A rifle shot sprayed hot sand over them and hastened Justine’s movements to mount her horse.
Sid swung in the saddle and twisted around to fire his pistol in direction of the assailant. The shots spooked their animals. Justine’s bolted forward and jerked her hard against the back of the saddle in the first leap. She fought for control with the reins.
“Come on, ma’am. We’ve got to get the hell out of here!”
In the confusion of her horse whirling around, she spotted Sanchez’s familiar face at the gate of the crumbling hacienda wall, his rifle leveled on Sid.
She started to scream when two more shots from the other direction caused her to twist around to see who else was shooting. The rounds sent Sanchez fleeing back inside the hacienda. Who fired them? Obviously a friend or someone on her side. No time to see who.
“Come on, let’s ride,” Sid shouted, riding up beside her. He began to whip her horse to make it run. They raced away from the hacienda. The cactus and greasewood flew by her in a blur as she and Sid fled across the desert. She prayed that they were leaving that black-hearted Lamas behind them. Maybe he was dead. But that was a frail hope. It would require more than an ordinary bullet to kill the evil bandit. If only, she thought with desperation … if only they really were escaping Lamas. Her eyes blazed in hatred so fierce that she could hardly see. Then, seized with panic, she screamed for the horse to go faster.
Lamas discovered Too-Gut’s picketed horse and rode him down the dry wash. He could hear sporadic firing coming from the hacienda. Sanchez was keeping the Apache pinned down with rifle fire. Lamas had already decided he and the Yaqui would ride out after the woman and leave the Apache afoot. How did one damn Apache cause this much trouble? Who was he?
The sound of an approaching horse caused him to rein up abruptly. More Apaches? he wondered in disgust. Pistol in his hand, he waited, ready to pull the trigger the minute the rider came into view.
Sarge drew up on the sun-bathed ridge above him. At Lamas’s wave, he drove his horse down the steep bank and reined him beside the leader. Sarge’s lathered mount blew loudly through its wide nostrils.
“I heard shots.” Sarge motioned his arm in the direction of another rifle crack.
“One Apache.” Lamas scowled in disgust.
“One?” The noncom shook his head in disbelief.
“He is very cunning.”
“I have some more bad news,” Sarge said quietly.
“What now?”
“Jimmy is in the Nogales jail. A big man in a brown suit and a Mexican who was with him picked Jimmy up and marched him across the border.”
“Across the border?” Lamas frowned as another rifle report shattered the air above them.
“Yeah. I heard about it last night. Your gardener Pedro told me you wanted Jimmy for letting the women get away.”
Another round of shots, closer this time, forced Lamas to break off their conversation. “Come on, we’ll ride around and get Sanchez. We will go get some help. The Guiterez brothers in Tucson have many men that we can hire. We will find out who this brown-suited hombre is and kill him. In Tucson, we can find out about these men who have arrested Jimmy too.”
“You mean to go back north?” Sarge asked in disbelief. “What about that Apache out there?”
The man had asked a good question, but he had better things to do than to mess around all day to kill one stinking old Apache. What Lamas needed much worse were more guns and men, if he was ever to get the Stauffer women back from all these bastards—Apaches, pistoleros, and this big gringo, whoever he was. Lamas had never seen the likes of so much trouble before. Enough of all this—his mind was made up, he would ride at once to Tucson and hire the primo badmen, the Guiterez brothers to help him get her back.
“To hell with him,” Lamas said at last. “Go get Sanchez and let’s ride.” He frowned as they parted. He hurried the horse up the hill for a look around. Apaches! And now some big man who had the nerve to ride into Mexico and take prisoners back to Arizona. What next? Was the Apache who had been shooting at Sanchez a relative of the dead Indian girl? Who knew? Well, Sarge would get Sanchez and they’d leave that red devil afoot. Sanchez could catch one of those dead cowboys’ horses to ride.
Lamas swore under his breath. Those bastards would pay for this. He would get the white woman back later. No one treated the great Lamas like this and escaped punishment. He would get them. He swore it on his mother’s grave.
Sam T. knew from the position of the sun that it was close to midday. The sorrel had not weakened despite the hard pace he had held him to. Their three animals were lathered and breathing hard from the long push they’d made. Da-yah pointed her rifle toward the green oasis of the hacienda ahead of them. Sam T. nodded in acknowledgment. Was it too much to hope that Mrs. Stauffer would still be there? Alive?
Sam, Jesus and Da-yah rode single file down the dry wash. On the other side, Too-Gut appeared, waving his rifle
. He came down the steep slope in a jog. The Apache looked alone and unscathed. Sam T. nodded in relief and he reined the sorrel up in front of the scout.
“The outlaws go north. Take my horse. Woman and one cowboy ride east.” He used the rifle to point out their directions.
Good. For the time being she has escaped them, was Sam T.’s first thought. What to do next perplexed him. He indicated to the scout that he’d heard the words and signaled with a motion of his head to go on to the ruins.
Too-Gut bounded on behind Da-yah and they rode to the old hacienda.
“A cowboy had her?” Sam T. questioned when they arrived. Too-Gut nodded. Sam booted his horse in close to look at the dead red-haired man; his bloody torso was sprawled awkwardly on the ground. The man’s highcrowned hat lay at a distance from his body. His throat had been cut. The outlaws had left another victim. Sam T. gazed beyond the wall to the north. Nothing in sight, but he knew the killers were not far away.
“Sam T.,” Jesus asked, “what should we do?”
“Right now walk these hot horses. If we don’t, they’ll get stiff. I have to hope the woman is safe. We’re going after those killers.”
“Too-Gut,” Sam T. asked, “how many men were here?”
“Two bad hombres. I am sorry, Sam T. I should have killed them,” the Chiricahua apologized. “Oh, and another in army clothes joined them here.”
Sam T. shook his head. “No, you did your best. At least the woman managed to escape. We’ll get them sooner or later. You’ve done well.”
Too-Gut’s gaze rested on the flat country to the north. Sam T. saw the resolve in his brown eyes.
“Don’t worry, Too-Gut, we’ll get them.”
“Yes,” the Apache agreed. “Then the major can get the papers to let us work for you.”
Sam wanted to say something reassuring, but he had no real answer.
Lawless Land Page 21
