The Sonora Noose

by Jackson Lowry

  21

  “NEVER THOUGHT I’D BE SEEING ANOTHER SUNRISE,” Barker gasped out. Every bone in his body ached. He was familiar with pain, but this went to new heights and then soared.

  “Not the sun. It’s a campfire.”

  “Fire? The outlaws can see us!” Barker tried to sit up, but nothing worked. His arms and legs twitched but flopped about independently of what he wanted.

  “Don’t get your dander up,” Dravecky said. “I had to boil water to clean your wounds.”

  “Wounds?”

  “You were punctured three times. That doesn’t count the bullet in your leg from back in Mesilla.”

  “Shrapnel,” he said, leaning back. He was stretched out on cold ground with a rock or two poking into him, but that hardly seemed to matter when he isolated the pain in his left arm and up and down his right leg. “That leg of mine’s going to end up in a butcher shop as sausage.”

  “No self-respecting butcher would touch that leg,” the marshal said. “If a doctor had been here, he’d have given it one look and then lopped it off. Good thing for you I’m not a doctor.”

  “You patched me up pretty good,” Barker said.

  “You owe me.” Dravecky heaved a sigh. “I sent Cullen to fetch the cavalry boys. Don’t know if he’ll find them or just keep ridin’. Don’t much blame him if he decides Denver’s better for his health than these parts.”

  “If Tomasson is on post, he’s going to get mighty tired of me sending urgent messages to him. I’d already sent two young’uns.”

  “Third time’s the charm.”

  “Hope it is. No way three of us could have taken charge in that canyon, not with a howitzer blowing us into tiny pieces.”

  “Where’d that field piece come from?”

  “Thought you’d’ve heard about the supply train from Fort Union being massacred,” Barker said. He gingerly tensed and relaxed different muscles, taking an inventory of what caused pain and what didn’t. He succeeded in sitting up. “That wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be.”

  “That’s ’cuz I gave you a healthy—maybe unhealthy—dose of that laudanum in your pocket. You always carry that?”

  “Never can tell when a body might need it,” Barker said cautiously.

  “Nasty stuff. I see men hooked on it, then end up in opium dens chasing the dragon, slaves to it.” Dravecky spat into the small fire. “Seen women ruined by it, too. Mostly whores, mind you, but some not of that persuasion.”

  Barker couldn’t meet the marshal’s gaze. The opiate killed the pain that filled him. What was wrong with that? He could stop taking it whenever the pain died away. He held out his hands and watched as they shook.

  “Got any water?”

  Dravecky silently handed over a canteen. Even a couple mouthfuls didn’t cut the dryness in his mouth. Barker knew it went beyond needing water, all the way to needing the laudanum.

  “Think they’ll hightail it into Mexico?” Barker asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Don’t matter what I think. What do you think they’re up to?”

  Barker didn’t have an easy answer for that. The Sonora Kid had lured them into a trap. Barker had known something like that might happen, and yet he had led men to their deaths in his eagerness to capture the Kid.

  “I was surprised he didn’t bring the cannon into town,” Barker said. “That would have given him bloodshed enough to dream on for a month. Or maybe not. He’s got quite a taste for killing now.”

  “I think we ought to leave them be. Let the cavalry handle it. That’s what they’re paid for.”

  “That’s what I’m paid for,” Barker reminded him.

  “Mason, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re all used up. This isn’t your fight no more. You left me a real good town in Mesilla, hardly any crime, friendly enough folks, though they are takin’ a while to warm up to me. But they’re honest and the worst that happens is a fight in a saloon. Even that don’t happen often. And all that’s thanks to you. But you’re at the end of your trail, drinkin’ that laudanum like it was mother’s milk.”

  “Don’t tell anybody ’bout that,” Barker said, his voice harsh.

  “Won’t,” Dravecky said. “But you need to get out of the saddle, if that’s what’s hurtin’ your back. I see it. Ever’body does.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Ever’body ’cept you, Marshal. Find yourself a town like Mesilla. Maybe go up to Doña Ana. Rumor has it the railroad will go through there and they’ll need somebody with your talent to keep the peace.”

  “If the railroad goes up north, Mesilla will become a ghost town.”

  “After spendin’ time in Fort Worth, a ghost town’d be fine with me. Mesilla won’t die out, not entirely. And if you’re marshal up north a ways, you won’t have to kill yourself ridin’ a hundred miles in a couple days to track outlaws.”

  “I could ride the train, if what you’re saying is true,” Barker said. “How hard could it be, sittin’ down all day in a fancy railcar, working as a railroad dick?”

  “You’re gettin’ the idea. Now come on. I’ll help you into the saddle, and we can be back in Mesilla by—”

  “I’m not leaving here.” Barker drew his rifle close, planted the butt end in the ground, and used it to push himself to his feet. He was a little wobbly but didn’t fall over.

  “There’s nothin’ I can do to convince you to give this up? The Sonora Kid and his gang are ’bout the worst I’ve ever seen.” Dravecky paused, then went on. “I can see you’re too bullheaded to give up. What do you think your job is here now, if you’re all alone?”

  “Watching. Waiting. Making certain they don’t come back this way.”

  “All by your lonesome, you’re gonna do that?”

  “It works both ways. We were caught because of the sheer cliffs on either side. It’ll be like them to try and escape from a bottle by wiggling through the neck. I can take a few of them out if they try.”

  “Might be they’d like that. From what I heard the last time you chased ’em into Skeleton Canyon, the Kid murdered one of his men to throw you off the trail. He’s likely to order a full-scale attack just to kill you and get out of the trap he put himself in.”

  “There’s something more he wants.”

  “There’s something more you want, Marshal, and I’ll be damned if I know what it is.” Dravecky rolled up his gear and lashed it behind his saddle. “I’m leavin’ you as much food as I can spare. I don’t need to eat so much anyway.” He patted his bulging belly. “Griselda is feedin’ me right good.”

  Barker felt a pang at the mention of women feeding their men. What would Ruth say if she found out their son rode with the Sonora Kid?

  “I’ll see to that cavalry detachment, too, if none of the others have gotten through to that boneheaded commander at Fort Selden.” Dravecky swung up into the saddle and looked down at Barker. “There’s somethin’ else here, isn’t there? Somethin’ personal?”

  Barker jumped as if the marshal had stuck him with a pin.

  “All that killing. I decided to make it personal.”

  “Back in town. You didn’t shoot when you had the chance. Does you stayin’ here like a clay pigeon have anything to do with not pullin’ the trigger when you should have?”

  “I’ll see you in town, Marshal. Keep a couple cells ready for the Sonora Kid and his gang.”

  Dravecky snorted and shook his head. He used the ends of his reins to whip his horse to a canter as he started back to Mesilla. Barker watched until the lawman disappeared, and felt a terrible loss. He ought to have confided in Dravecky. He was a good man and would understand.

  “Nate,” Barker said softly. “What have you gotten yourself mixed up in this time?”

  Barker wasn’t sure what he would do when it came time to arrest the gang. If Sergeant Sturgeon was in the field, Barker was sure he could convince him to look the other way and let Nate go. He had to be a dupe, sowing his wild oats and falling in with the wrong me
n.

  But what if he had joined in the massacre of the stagecoach passengers and the army supply train? Lieutenant Greenberg was a decent man, a good officer, and he had been filled with lead. A single bullet or two might have killed him, but there was no call to pump in twenty or more rounds. Dead was dead.

  That kind of brutality was done for reasons that had nothing to do with robbery. Killing for the pleasure of it was wrong.

  Barker began walking slowly around his tiny camp, getting the lay of the land and figuring how best to bottle up the gang if they tried to ride back this way.

  Dravecky had taken him too far from the canyon mouth to be effective. The outlaws could slip either left or right and get away without passing by. It cost him some painful moments, but Barker kicked out the fire, then led his horse closer to the canyon and up a low hill where he could command the mouth better. He unlimbered his rifle, flopped belly down on the ground, and watched for movement.

  All he saw was the occasional branch stirring from the pitifully weak, hot wind, and brush shivering as a rabbit or other small animal crept about.

  The day lengthened into afternoon and the heat wore on him. He fought to keep his eyes open and finally succumbed to sleep, only to be awakened by a strange sound. He grabbed for his rifle. His rifle was gone. So was his six-shooter.

  “You were sleeping so sound, Pa, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I didn’t want you firin’ a gun in your sleep, either.”

  “Nate, you got away. You—”

  “Got away? Are you drunk, old man? What do you think I got away from?”

  “The gang. The Sonora Kid. I know there was another gunman with you in town. He made you go.”

  “You found the sombrero in the middle of the street. I saw you lookin’ at it.”

  Barker started to roll over to face his son. Nate was behind him somewhere. A boot pressed down into the small of his back just hard enough to make him gasp in pain.

  “Your yellow streak hurtin’ you, Pa? You still boastin’’bout how you never killed a man with your six-gun? Does that get them to buy you drinks at the Plugged Nickel? To hear your tall tales?”

  “Nate, don’t do this. We—”

  “We? There’s no ‘we,’ Pa. I think you’ve been out in the sun too much. Or maybe this has addled your brains.”

  The laudanum bottle dropped into the sand beside him. As he reached for it, Nate stepped down harder on his back, until the pain became excruciating.

  “I saw you matchin’ up the concha. Where’d I lose it? Where I held up the stagecoach?”

  “Nate, please.”

  “Yeah, right.” The pressure lessened, but the pain lingered. “I saw you comparin’ the silver. You know who wore that sombrero. Then and there you knew I wore that sombrero.”

  “The Sonora Kid did. It was his signature.”

  “Signature. I don’t write too good, but you’re right. It was my signature. Men saw me wearing that sombrero and they stepped away. Never looked at my face, didn’t have to. They became real respectful. You wear a badge to get respect like that, but they talk behind your back. They see me in the sombrero and they don’t dare say nothin’ except ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir.’ ”

  “The Sonora Kid wore it,” Barker gasped out.

  “Old man, you are loco from too much sun if you don’t understand by now. I’m the Sonora Kid. That’s my gang in there and they do what I say. Anything I say.”

  “You slaughtered all those men? The soldiers?”

  The ugly laugh answered better than words ever could.

  “What went wrong with you, Nate?”

  “I finally got some cojones. I let you and everyone else push me around too long. Then I found out how easy it was to just take what I want.”

  “You’re alibiing for the Kid, claiming to be him when you’re just riding with him.”

  “Crazy and a fool,” the Sonora Kid said. “I killed the hombre who started the gang, so it’s my gang now.”

  Barker screamed in agony as the boot smashed hard into his spine. Then he passed out.

  22

  MASON BARKER SAT IN THE HOT SUN AND SHOOK as if he had the ague. His hands quivered and his guts churned and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop them. Worst of all, the same thought turned over and over in his head.

  Nate ... Nate ... Nate ...

  Somewhere deep inside he knew he had failed his son over the years, being on the trail of outlaws more than he’d been home. Serving process brought in most of their money, and he had to ride all over the southern part of New Mexico and down into Texas for that. He had been gone and let Ruth raise their son.

  But it had been too much for her, strong as she was, after Patrick died. Or maybe it was the fault of neither of them. A bad seed sometimes produced a warped, gnarled tree.

  His son was the Sonora Kid. His son was a terrible, cold-blooded killer. And his son hadn’t even seen fit to gun him down when he had the chance. It might have been payback for the moment in Mesilla when he had been unable to shoot Nate. That instant had come out of surprise. But even then, deep down, he had known the awful truth. He was clever enough to come up with a dozen different reasons why Nate wasn’t the Sonora Kid, and he had run through all of them.

  But Nate was. And he was still federal deputy marshal and empowered to arrest him and see that he was tried for his crimes.

  Barker stared down into the canyon and the lengthening shadows that refused to betray any of the gang to him. He didn’t have a rifle or six-shooter. Nate had kept them. If any of the gang chose to ride out, he could do little more than throw rocks at them. And if Nate returned, it would be to taunt him even more than he had. Nate had developed quite a cruel streak.

  Barker wished the Sonora Kid had killed him, shot him in the back, clubbed him senseless, and left him to die. But Nate was far crueler than that now. Killing men had become easy and enjoyable for him, but not as easy or enjoyable as taunting his father and making him feel like a fool.

  Twilight deepened into darkness. He strained to hear the gang at their campsite, joking, making crude comments, even shooting at anything moving through the night. There were only the sounds of night he had known all his life.

  “You took my guns so I couldn’t shoot myself,” he said aloud. Tears streamed down his cheeks and left muddy trails. He wiped them on his sleeve, but more formed and flowed.

  Had Nate been right that the disgrace of knowing his son was the most notorious outlaw in all of New Mexico would push him to suicide? He allowed as to how his son might know him better than he thought, but that would never happen. He loved Nate, in his own way, but he loved duty more. He had sworn an oath to uphold the law and would die before breaking it.

  The sound of horses behind him caused Barker to clumsily stand and look northward. He saw nothing in the darkness until a glint of moonlight off brass caused him to catch his breath.

  “Over here!” he shouted. “Just out of the canyon!”

  The clank of gear and the sound of horses drew closer. Lots of horses. And then the thin sliver of moon showed an officer riding at the head of a long column of soldiers. Barker waved, took off his hat, waved that furiously, and finally drew the attention of a soldier riding to the side of the column. The soldier galloped toward him while the remainder of the troopers halted.

  “Glory be,” called Sergeant Sturgeon, “I didn’t think we’d find you alive. Not after what your town’s marshal had to say.”

  “I’m not giving up,” Barker said, the words hollow in his ears. “I can’t.”

  “I’ve seen men with a bug up their butt ’fore this, but from the sound of it the bugs oughta have eaten you all hollow by now. Marshal Dravecky made it out that you were mostly dead.”

  “The Sonora Kid and his gang are holed up a half mile into the canyon. Or they were last night. N-none of them’s come out.” Barker almost choked on that lie, but telling Sturgeon that he had spoken with the Sonora Kid required explanations he refused to deliver.r />
  “You don’t think you’ve got ’em all bottled up now, do you, Marshal?”

  “They can go deeper into the mountains. They’ve had a day or so, but I think they’re waiting.”

  “What for?”

  “You. You and the colonel. The Sonora Kid wants to kill you all.”

  “That’ll take some mighty fancy shootin’,” said Sturgeon. Then the sergeant thought on this a moment and said, “They’ve got the cannon trained on the trail, don’t they?”

  “I’m surprised Dravecky didn’t tell you. The howitzer wiped out most of our posse.”

  “All he said was that they shot you up good.”

  “Shrapnel. Was it the marshal who got you down here?”

  “A boy a couple days back was shooed off by a guard. Another came, but the colonel wasn’t takin’ visitors.” Sturgeon sounded bitter over this. “Then the marshal came, inquiring after a man named Cullen.”

  “He never reached Fort Selden,” Barker said, knowing the outcome as surely as if he had watched with his own eyes. The way Dravecky had spoken before riding out had warned him that Cullen was unreliable. He hadn’t known the surviving member of the posse at all but didn’t see him as the kind to get involved more than he had been, trying to make an easy dollar a day. After seeing his partners blown up and shot down, he was likely a hundred miles away by now.

  Barker considered him the lucky one.

  “I’d better talk with the colonel ’fore he takes it into his head to charge on into the canyon,” Sturgeon said. “You sure they have the howitzer?”

  “Trained on the trail,” Barker assured him. The sergeant nodded once, then galloped back to tell his commanding officer what he had found out. It took only a minute before Tomasson rode to talk personally with Barker.

  “From what the town marshal said,” Tomasson started without preamble, “you ran into a force you couldn’t conquer.”