Brothers in Blood

by Dusty Richards

  “I know a good ranch closer to the fort. He might sell that place.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Grover McClelland. But please let me ask him so he will pay me for being a finder, huh?”

  “I understand. Let’s look at it.”

  “Sure, soon. What are you doing today?” Ortega asked.

  “Noting planned. Only you, me, and Shawn left. What do you have in mind?”

  “Go look at some wild horses.”

  “Mustangs?”

  “Not bangtails. There is a wild stallion over west. I want you to see his band. He is a great horse and no one knows where he came from. I would like him and his mares, but I have no place for them. But maybe you could see how good he is.”

  “Have you ever seen a Barbarossa stallion?” Chet asked him.

  “They are all golden horses, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw three of them run at Nogales in the big races over there. Ten years ago and, oh, I wanted one so bad.”

  “I have one.”

  “So you are the one who ransomed a girl with a gold horse?”

  “That is JD’s wife, Bonnie.”

  “And you sit under this tent and catch two-bit bandits?”

  “Someone needs to do it.”

  Shawn was back from checking the horses.

  “Hey, saddle our horses,” Chet said. “We’re going to look at some wild ones.”

  “That’ll be different.”

  “We need a change.”

  “Hey, I love wild horses.”

  Ortega went for his mount. Laughing, he hugged his wife when he caught her walking down from their jacal.

  “We won’t need lunch,” Chet told her. “We’re going horse hunting.”

  She shook her head and sent her hair back so the wind lifted it. “I was there once when we first married. They are beautiful horses and he fears someone will gather them some day before he can.”

  “We’ll go and see what they’re like.”

  “It is a tough trip. But he don’t care. Be careful. I will hold supper. You will be back late.”

  The ride over the western range of mountains was steep and they topped out on the top of a pass where the brisk wind cooled them and their sweaty horses. Acres of brown grass spread out in the distance and two water sources shone in the sun like gems.

  “Anyone ranch it?”

  “A few do, but it is a tough land.”

  “How many homesteads are out there?”

  “Maybe two dozen.”

  “In how many miles?”

  “A sixty-mile band.” Ortega pointed north and then south.

  From their perch, the area appeared to Chet like an overlooked empire. He wished he could contact Bo and learn something about the ownership. The south wind was strong and he pulled his hat brim down when they set off going down the steep other side. A place for goats, but he trusted the roan’s sure footedness.

  New land, new country, and he was impressed. The mild temperature was like south Texas. But rain and water would be the limiting factors. Ortega might be leading them into another great ranch.

  They spent the day riding the desert and saw signs, but never found the horse band. To Chet, this was an intriguing land. Some water, but more could be developed. Lots of grass.

  “How do you get here?”

  “From the south, cross the Papago reservation, or north you can go west on the Yuma road, then turn south and reach it. We are about in the center of the range. I haven’t seen anything today but the dwarf antelope that lives here.”

  “Pronghorn?”

  “Yes, about half the size of the other ones.”

  Hurrying back, they were over the mountain pass before the sun set and rode back to the Two 8 Slash in the twilight. Shawn had been impressed, too.

  “Mind if I ask you what you think about that land?” he asked Chet.

  “Looks like range country to me. Needs water development—tanks built, springs developed, and maybe windmills, if there is water close by.”

  Ortega laughed. “I have shared my secret, no?”

  “Yes, you did. And it’s a good one. We’ll go back and look again,” Chet promised them.

  They all agreed that they’d like to do that.

  Maria had some candle lamps on in the tent when they rode up. Shawn and Ortega took the horses to put them up.

  She smiled in greeting. “I thought you were lost over there.”

  “We never saw his horse, but we had a wonderful day. Great country.”

  She agreed. “Wash up. The food is still hot.”

  “No messages today?”

  “Yes, one.” She took it from her apron pocket.

  He put the yellow sheet under a candle light to read it.

  CHET BYRNES

  THE ARIZONA BANK IN BENSON WAS ROBBED TODAY.

  THEY STOLE TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS. THREE OR

  MORE MEN TOOK PART. TWO TOWNSPEOPLE WERE

  SHOT AND A BANK TELLER. A POSSE CHASED THEM,

  BUT GAVE UP THIS PM SOMEWHERE BETWEEN

  TOMBSTONE AND FT HUACHUCA. NO NAMES BUT

  TWO MEXICANS AND ONE WHITE MAN INVOLVED.

  IF YOU CAN HELP LOCAL OFFICIALS PLEASE DO SO.

  BLEVINS

  “What is it, Chet?” Shawn asked.

  “They robbed the Benson bank. Three men and rode south. Posse quit their tracks or lost them between Tombstone and the fort.”

  “What can we do?” asked Ortega.

  “In the morning, take some packhorses, cut up through south of the Whetstones and look for them. Being shorthanded, would one of your brothers like to ride with us?”

  “I bet he will. Right after supper, I’ll go find him.”

  “No,” Maria said. “You men eat. I will ask them to come down here.”

  The plate of food in his hand, Chet thanked her. The three went to filling their dishes. They soon had their coffee as well and sat down to eat.

  The middle brother, Bronco, soon joined them. He was the same lanky cut, twenty-something, image of his brother.

  “Maria said you needed more help?”

  “We do. Four of my men are on leave. The bank was robbed in Benson. Three men, they say rode south. We’re going to try to find out where they went.”

  “I have no work. Jose can watch the ranch and the women. You plan to leave at sunup?”

  “Yes, and thanks.”

  Bronco smiled. “How did you like Ortega’s country?”

  “I liked it a lot. I like rangeland. It has some possibilities.”

  Bronco nodded and went for some coffee.

  “He can ride and shoot with me,” Ortega said.

  “I have no doubts about any of your brothers.” Chet smiled, and Ortega nodded in satisfaction.

  Chet went to sleep missing his wife, but full of plans to find the bank robbers.

  CHAPTER 24

  They rode out at daybreak. Bronco rode a head-slinging tough mustang that walked on eggs for half a mile before he calmed down. One of those kind Chet knew about that you’d have to cut his head clear off to kill him.

  Ortega convinced him to go farther south than his original plan and swing around through Patagonia to look for sign of them heading south. Someone may have seen them or knew where they went. They reached the area near the fort and shut down to camp for the night. The two brothers knew some people there and wanted to go see them and find out all they could.

  “Great idea,” Chet said. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

  “They may learn more than we could,” Shawn said, unloading the packhorses.

  “If there’s any information out there, they’ll know about it.”

  They made coffee and ate some dry cheese and crackers. A coyote howled nearby, bats flew in the night sky, and some desert owls hooted. He sent Shawn off to sleep a few hours before he took over guard duty. Yawning, with a rifle across his lap he dozed lightly while sitting up and woke to the horses nickering to returning hors
es. The brothers were back.

  He walked over to where they were unsaddling.

  “Learn anything?”

  “One is named Montrose. There is a gringo rides with him and a boy. They spent some money at a whorehouse yesterday.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Grainger Springs.”

  Chet shook his head. “Never been there.”

  “If that posse had kept on following them, they would have caught them. They said the posse quit way up at Saint David.”

  “Citizen posses are not too valuable. I’d bet they didn’t want to find them. Where did they go next?”

  “I imagine Mexico,” Ortega said.

  Bronco spoke up. “But one of the girls told us they spoke of Tombstone.”

  “Wouldn’t that be dangerous for them?” Chet frowned about that.

  “I agree, but they were bold enough to stop at a whorehouse,” Ortega said.

  “If we only had a horse brand. Descriptions don’t do much.”

  Shawn was up. “You find them?”

  “No. Only where they have been.”

  “I think they may be in Naco,” Ortega said. “It is on the border and has plenty of liquor and wild women.”

  “Let’s get some sleep. Can we reach there tomorrow?”

  “Oh, sí.”

  Shawn cooked oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins for the crew. He’d watched Jesus do it so much it came out the same. After breakfast, they crossed the desert rangeland and saw many cattle that the brothers said were John Slaughter’s. Chet didn’t know the man, but evidently the brothers did. They said he originally came from Texas. Coming out on a stagecoach, his wife died and he had two small children to raise by himself.

  Chet couldn’t help thinking about his own wife and hoped her and the baby were well.

  After they arrived in Naco, they stabled the horses on the American side and walked across the international border. The border consisted of just a wide strip of open land that separated the two towns that faced each other. Stations manned by each country’s border agents were two shacks ten feet apart, but they mainly handled import and export items.

  Oretga led them to a café where he knew the owner and went into the kitchen to talk with him. When he came back to their table, he spoke in a low voice, telling them the men they wanted were in the Red Rose Cantina where they’d been raising hell all day.

  “What now?” Shawn asked.

  “Who should cover the back door?” Chet asked.

  “Bronco or Ortega, they both speak Spanish.”

  “You go, but don’t shoot unless they are shooting, or getting away,” Ortega said to his brother.

  “I understand.”

  “Others may flee in the face of gunfire. We want no innocent ones shot.”

  “I will be careful.” Bronco headed for the alley.

  “Shawn, you watch who comes out front. Same orders. We’ll be in Mexico and we need them back over on the American side and their horses, too.”

  “Which ones are theirs?”

  “I guess they’ll have to tell us. Ortega and I are going inside to stand at the bar for a drink and try to locate them.”

  “Be careful,” Shawn said.

  Chet agreed, and he and the lanky vaquero crossed the open space. Chet felt very conspicuous, but tried to shake his stiffness when Ortega pushed in the creaking batwing doors that needed their hinges oiled.

  The smoky room wasn’t crowded. Under a wagon wheel light with candles dripping all around it, some men played cards at a large round table. A big man in the back was messing with a puta, a lanky black woman. His raucous laughter rang out over some guitar music played by a teenage boy seated on a chair on a small stage.

  Ortega ordered them a bottle of mescal and spoke softly in Spanish to the bartender. “Who is that big loud hombre?”

  “I don’t know him. They say his name is Montrose. That kid on the guitar and another named Farley came in here a few hours ago. I guess Montrose has lots of money. He’s been spending it like it was water.”

  “Where is Farley?”

  “Playing cards. He’s in the dirty white sombrero.”

  Chet paid for the bottle and slipped him a ten-dollar gold piece. The man smiled. “Have fun in Mexico.”

  “Oh, we will,” Ortega promised him.

  They poured mescal into their glasses. Chet watched what he could see of the three from the bar mirror. Then the kid got up, put the guitar down and headed for the back door, no doubt to go piss.

  “I’ll be right back,” Ortega said, like a man needing to vent his bladder and headed for the back door.

  “Where do you live?” the bartender asked.

  “Up by Preskitt.”

  “You ranch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it cold up there?”

  “In the winter, it gets that way at times.”

  “I could not stand to live there if it gets cold. I can’t stand it here when it gets cold.” He moved on to wait on a customer.

  “You make it?” Chet asked Ortega when he returned.

  “Yes. The matter is handled.”

  Montrose was getting louder and the woman squalling and laughing.

  Farley stood up and in a loud voice asked Montrose, “Where did the kid go?”

  Montrose shook his head. “Why?”

  “When he gets back, send him for some food.” He belched and rubbed his belly. “Think I’d better take a walk. Be right back.” He headed for the back door and Ortega did, too.

  When he didn’t return after a while, Montrose must have wondered why and he headed for the back door. Chet followed him.

  Standing behind the big man who’d stuck his head out the back door to look around, he stuck his Colt’s muzzle in his back. “Keep going and be damn quiet about it, or I’ll shoot you dead.”

  “Who in the hell are you?”

  “Tell you more later.” Then he shoved him on outside.

  Bronco stepped up with his gun drawn to cover the doorway.

  Chet took Montrose’s six-gun out of the holster and stuck it in his waistband. Ortega handcuffed him behind his back. The other two were tied and seated on the ground.

  “Which are their horses?” Chet asked under his breath.

  “A bay, a dark dun, and a black one,” Bronco said. “I’ll get Shawn and we’ll ride them across the line.”

  “We’ll take them and go down this alley. There’s less light shining on the border that way,” Chet said.

  “See you in Arizona,” Bronco said, and hurried to go between the buildings and join Shawn.

  “Get on your feet.” Chet swept Farley’s hat up and slapped it on his head.

  “You three bounty hunters?” Montrose growled.

  “Yeah,” Chet said, and prodded him in the back with his pistol barrel.

  “I’ve got lots of money. I can pay you if you let us go.”

  “How much?” Chet asked, his foot hitting a bottle in the darkness.

  “Thousands of dollars.”

  “Where is it?”

  “At my ranch in Sonora. I swear I’d pay you.”

  “Why are you robbing banks up here, if you have plenty of money?”

  “It’s what I like to do.”

  “Sure. Now, no funny tricks. I can chop your head off and take it in to get my reward.”

  “Who in the hell are these guys?” the kid whispered.

  “Bounty hunters. They play tough. A head, or a body, they don’t care,” Farley said. “Do as they say.”

  “All right.”

  With only the stars for light, they were part way across the open ground that made up the border when Montrose began screaming, “Help! Help! I’m being kidnapped.”

  Chet busted him on the side of the head and he went face down, silenced. Bronco came riding one of their horses and tossed Chet a lariat. He holstered his gun, nosed the rope around both of Montrose’s boots, and shouted, “Go!”

  Bronco took a wrap on the saddle hor
n. Chet beat the horse on the ass with his hat. The horse dug in and the outlaw slid on his back, screaming all the way, and was delivered over into United States territory.

  Out of breath and laughing, Chet bent over to get his breath. “That was a great job, boys.”

  Ortega let out a wild, “Yahoo!”

  Chet congratulated them all, then waved his hat at the crowd of border watchers congregated on the boardwalk. “Muchos gracias hombres.”

  Two guards from the US side ran down with rifles. The man in charge demanded to know what was going on.

  “We’re US Marshals. And we just extradited three outlaws from Mexico.”

  He began to laugh and so did the other one. “I’ve never seen it done like that before.”

  “Well, it takes all kinds of ways to do this job.”

  Shawn brought all the horses down to them. They loaded the prisoners, Chet thanked the guards, and they headed back to camp. Chet intended to search them for the money when they got there. He doubted Montrose had any more money in Mexico than he had on this side of the border. Counting their horses, saddles and all, he figured his men would have some good-sized rewards coming.

  Like Chet expected, they found the money on the three men. The next morning, he put it all in one bag and they headed for Tombstone and the county jail. He wired the authorities in Benson to meet him there. He also wired Blevins that they had the robbers and most of the loot and where they were headed.

  They rode all day, and it was way past sundown when they got to the Cochise County Courthouse. Chet’s eyes felt like they were burned-out holes shrunk in his head when he dropped from the saddle. Marshal Blevins was there to shake his hand and introduce him to Sheriff John Behan, a fancy dresser who looked more like a dude than a sheriff.

  Two men from the Benson bank were there, the head banker named Cohill, and the other his teller, who took the sack of money they’d retrieved.

  When Chet introduced his three men, Blevins blinked.

  Standing in the lamplight, Chet laughed. “Four of my men had to go check on their wives. I was shorthanded, so enlisted these two to help catch the bank robbers.”

  “Can I have a story?” a young reporter who’d been hanging around asked.

  Blevins stepped in. “The US Marshal’s office has a task force working southern Arizona to combat the crime in this district. All I can say is these men work undercover. While doing that, their names and the details must remain undisclosed so as to not inform the criminal element.”