Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  “I am warning you,” Hector called out, a chill tightening up his spine. “You do not want to fool with me. I am not afraid of you . . . even if you are some demon from below the desert floor.”

  A demon from beneath the desert floor? Santa Madre! he thought. Now even his own words spooked him.

  He crossed himself with a nervous hand. It dawned on him that he never liked being alone out in the desert at night. What in the name of God had ever made him offer to do this?

  The dark silhouette had stopped a few yards outside the circle of his campfire—he should never have built the fire, he reprimanded himself. But what else was he to do, eat cold raw snake? He didn’t think so, he reasoned. Beside him his horse chuffed and whinnied low under its breath toward the animal standing silently in the grainy purple night.

  “What is wrong with you! Why do you not answer me?” Hector shouted toward the dark apparition-like silhouette, seeing it look almost translucent through a wispy flicker of flames.

  Was it a ghost? Oh God! No! He heard the tremble in his voice, nearly a sob, he realized.

  “Por favor, tell me something,” he said at length, sounding submissive, almost pleading. “I do not know who you are or what you—”

  His words stopped short as he felt the edge of a long knife flat across his throat, an inch below his chin. A strong forearm tightened around his forehead and pulled his head back at a sharp angle, giving him a clear but shaky view of the yellow moon, the purple sky and the endless stars.

  A warm breath moved across his ear from less than an inch away.

  “What are you doing in our desert?” a voice whispered.

  “I—I—!” Hector found it impossible to speak without gagging with his head at such an angle. Having lost all control of his hands, he let his shotgun fall to the ground.

  “He can’t talk, Clyde,” another voice said, this one coming from atop the dark silhouette as it moved into the circle of firelight, its rider straightening up in the saddle. “You’ve got his Adam’s apple in a knot.”

  The tightened forearm loosened a little on Hector’s forehead, enough for him to gasp and swallow and form words. The long blade stayed against his throat as if to remind him who was in charge.

  “Please, señors!” he gasped. “I am Hector Pasada . . . from Rosas Salvajes!”

  “Hec-tor,” said the man at his throat. “You look more like a Pancho to me.”

  “Please,” begged Hector, “I am only here to find a man . . . to deliver a message to him!”

  As soon as he’d spoken, the forearm tightened again, drawing his eyes back up to the starlit sky. He’d caught only a glance of the dark figure swinging down from his saddle.

  “Oh, from Wild Roses,” said the man.

  “Is that why you smell so sweet?” the man with the knife to his throat said into his ear. He sniffed around Hector’s collar.

  Smell so sweet . . . ? Sante Madre!

  The other man walked his horse over and stopped near the fire. He stooped down, picked up a piece of rattlesnake and put it into his mouth. He sucked on the bite of warm snake flesh. Then he spit it out at his feet. “This rep-tile needs something. Pepper . . . ? Sage . . . ? Something . . . ,” he said.

  “What?” Hector managed to gasp hoarsely.

  “He’s saying you can’t cook for shit, Pancho,” the man behind him whispered in his ear, his grip still tight.

  At the fire, the other man stood and wiped his fingertips on his ragged, blackened doeskin coat.

  “And who is this man you’re looking for?” he inquired.

  The arm loosened for a second, long enough for Hector to reply.

  “Sonora Charlie . . . Charlie Ring,” Hector said quickly, knowing the forearm would soon cut him off again. “The Frenchman sent me from Rosas Salvajes to—”

  The forearm tightened.

  “I am Sonora Charlie Ring,” the man by the fire said. He wiped snake from his fingers onto his trouser leg.

  The forearm loosened.

  “You—you are Sonora Charlie?” Hector gasped.

  “What did I say?” the voice said coldly.

  The forearm tightened instantly, then loosened. “Listen up, Pancho—”

  Hector gasped. “You said that you are—”

  The forearm tightened again. The knife blade pressed just hard enough to keep Hector terrified.

  “I know what I said,” said Sonora Charlie.

  “Please, señor—” Hector rasped again in spite of the knife against his throat.

  Sonora Charlie looked the terrified man up and down, seeing the dark streak of urine that spread down both of his trouser legs.

  “Clyde, take your pigsticker from Wet Hector’s throat, turn him loose. Let’s hear what the Frenchman wants.”

  “You mean you don’t want me to cut Pancho open?” the voice behind Hector asked.

  “Maybe later,” said Sonora Charlie. “We’ll see.”

  “Aw, hell!” Clyde Jilson shouted in disappointment. He turned the Mexican loose suddenly, shoving him from behind. Hector flew forward and landed at his horse’s hooves, gasping and clutching his throat for a moment to make sure it wasn’t laid open from ear to ear.

  Thank God! Thank God and all of his holy saints . . . !

  Sonora Charlie stepped over, reached a hand down to Hector and pulled him to his feet. Hector stood stunned as Charlie brushed his hand up and down his chest and even straightened his shirt collar for him.

  “What does the Frenchman want with me?” he asked.

  Hector collected himself and swallowed hard, lowering his hand from his throat. He looked at the short, stocky buckskin-clad Clyde Jilson, who stood inspecting the discarded shotgun as if he’d never seen one before.

  “He—he wants you to kill someone,” Hector said, “but it is he who must talk to you about it. I only bring his message. He said I would find you in Pase Alto.”

  “As you can see, I’m not there. I’m here,” said Sonora Charlie. He spread his hands, as if to give Hector proof of his whereabouts. “It so happens I am on my way in the direction of Wild Roses anyway.”

  Clyde stepped forward and handed Hector the shotgun, butt first.

  “So you were lucky, Pancho,” he said with a wide grin. The top of his head was bald, but hair surrounded the sides and hung down to his shoulders like dirty curtains. “If you came into High Pass acting this way, we would have killed you and fed you to our dogs.”

  “Acting what way?” Hector looked back and forth between the two men, a baffled expression on his face.

  “Never mind,” said Sonora Charlie Ring. “We can see that you’re young and probably haven’t been with the Frenchman long.”

  “Sí, it is true. I have only started working for Three-Hand Defoe,” said Hector. He spread his hands. “But tell me, por favor, what have I done wrong?”

  “A lot of things,” said Sonora Charlie. “We won’t go into it all right now.” He and Clyde Jilson looked at each another.

  “You’ll learn soon enough,” said Clyde, “else you’ll be dead and gone.” He gave Hector a flat grin. “This desert will tolerate no man who does not respect it and give it its proper dues.”

  Hector felt his temper suddenly flare, but he kept himself in check. Who the hell were these two gringos, to tell him about this desert?

  “My people have lived in this desert for hundreds of years,” he said before he could stop himself. “I know every—”

  “Shhh!” said Sonora Charlie, cutting him off. He raised a finger an inch from Hector’s face. “This is our desert now. Mine and Clyde’s. You have nothing here. Don’t press the matter.”

  Hector just stared at the two.

  After a pause, Charlie Ring let out a tight breath. Looking Hector up and down, he said quietly, “Go fetch your horse, Clyde.”

  Then he turned to Hector and added, “Go dry your trousers by the fire. Clyde’s going to go get his horse and boil us up a pot of coffee.”

  “We’re going to Wild Ros
es as soon as your trousers are dry,” Clyde said, stepping away to get his horse from where he’d left it hitched outside the firelight. “We’d better not find out you’re lying.”

  Lying? Lying! Why would I be lying? What the hell is this man talking about? Hector raged on in silence. He wanted to ask them both what the hell was wrong with them, but this was not the time or the place to say anything. This was a good time to keep his mouth shut, lest he get himself killed.

  These were two bad hombres, he’d already decided. Bad and loco too, he told himself. Sí, muy loco! Very crazy indeed.

  Chapter 6

  The Ranger and Erin walked out the side door of the tonsorial and stopped beside the black-point dun that stood at an iron hitch rail. Sam had taken the dun to the livery barn, watered and grained him and washed him down with a bucket of water. He’d wiped the animal off with a handful of clean straw and led him over to the tonsorial.

  Beside the dun stood Bram Donovan’s roan gelding—a sturdy-looking desert barb that appeared too well cared for to belong to a man on the run.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Ranger Burrack,” Erin said, her arms folded across her bosom, a thin shawl around her shoulders even in the heat of the day. “I will never forget everything you’ve done for me and my poor brother, Bram.”

  Sam noted that she called him Ranger Burrack in spite of the fact that he had given her permission to call him by his first name.

  “All I did was make arrangements with the barber,” he replied softly. “Thank Wild Roses for providing the box and the plot of ground.”

  “I—I could have paid,” she said in a lowered voice. “But in doing so I would have cut my ocean fare short.”

  “I understand,” Sam said. They had talked earlier and agreed that she would ride with him as far the nearest location where she could take a coach on to the Port of Tampico.

  “It’s most considerate of you to help,” she said, “considering that Bram would have been riding with the Torres gang against you had he not met his end.”

  Sam didn’t reply; he only looked at her and gave a slight smile.

  “ ‘’Tis fate that has us all in its pocket,’ ” she said. “It’s an old Gaelic-Irish saying.”

  “I see,” Sam said. He heard just a faint trace of brogue in her voice, and it seemed only to come forward when she allowed it.

  “Will you be all right riding in that garb?” he asked, gesturing a nod toward her long gingham dress.

  She gave him a look, as if to ask what choice she had.

  “I have a pair of denims and an extra shirt in my saddlebags,” he offered. “Did your brother own a hat? You’ll need one while you ride—that is, if you’re comfortable wearing it.”

  “I have his hat, and I have his trail coat and gun belt as well,” she said. “They’re tucked under some hay up there.” She nodded toward the livery stable. “Bram would want me to get use of them.” She looked at Sam and added hesitantly, “May I . . . have his gun?”

  “Certainly,” Sam said. “I only picked it up out of habit. He reached behind him, took Bram’s Starr revolver from his belt and held it out for her.

  Erin accepted the big Starr in her small hands and looked at it, hefting the weight of it.

  “My, it is heavy,” she said.

  “Do you know how to use it?” Sam asked.

  “No, not very well,” she said. “Bram had me shoot it in case I ever needed to. But I never learned to aim and hit anything.” She paused, then added, “Perhaps you could show me while we are on the trail?”

  “Yes, I’ll be happy to, first chance we get,” Sam said. “Now, let’s get some coffee beans while the barber gets your brother ready. As soon as we have him properly buried, we’ll need to get some riding in before nightfall.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said. A hand went to her midsection. Her eyes closed for a moment.

  Sam saw her swoon slightly as if on the verge of fainting.

  “Erin, are you all right?” he asked, reaching for her forearm to steady her. As he did so, he took the heavy Starr revolver from her hand.

  “Oh yes, I’m fine,” she said, seeming to catch herself and make an effort to stand straight. “I just felt weak for a moment, too much excitement, I suppose.”

  Sam looked at her closely.

  “How long since you’ve eaten?” he asked, slipping the Starr behind his back and tucking it into his belt.

  “Yesterday evening,” she said. “I’m fine, though. I’m a light eater.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not,” he said. “Why don’t we eat something here before we pick up supplies?”

  “If you feel we should,” she said. “But not on my account.”

  “No, I’m hungry,” he said. “I’m hoping you can eat something yourself. It’s not good, traveling the Mexican desert on an empty stomach.”

  “All right, I can eat a little,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “Now, where is a clean place to eat?” he asked, and quickly added, “Besides Defoe’s Bad Dogs Cantina, that is.”

  “I know a place at the other end of town,” Erin said. “It’s Mama Maria’s. She cooks the best food in all of Wild Roses.”

  “Let’s go there first,” Sam said, a smile spreading across his face. He could see she was hungry, but her frugality, as well as her pride, would not allow her to say so. Would she have tried to put off her hunger until they were on the trail, where it would be only natural that she share the evening meal with him?

  Probably so, he thought. If it was indeed hunger making her weak.

  “Lead the way, please,” he said.

  Was he allowing himself to get too close to this young woman? he asked himself as he watched her brush a strand of hair from her cheek.

  No, I’m not, he quickly thought in his defense.

  Erin Donovan was a woman alone who had just lost her brother. She was frightened, and unaccompanied, and a long way from home, he reasoned. What else was he to do but help her?

  Leading both horses by their reins, they walked along the edge of the street, noting the eyes of a few onlookers turn to them as they passed the line of plank and adobe buildings along the way.

  Out in front of Defoe’s cantina, Glory Embers and two other doves followed the Ranger and Erin with their eyes.

  “Hmmph,” said Glory, cocking a hand on her hip, “it looks like the little Nordic princess has finally stuck her hooks into something worth hanging on to.”

  “She’s not Nordic, she’s Scots-Irish,” a young blond Dakota dove named Hopper Truit said, correcting Glory. “Her brother told me.”

  “Nordic, Scottish, Irish—what’s the difference?” Glory said with a bored shrug. “I was betting she’d end up humping her butt along with the rest of us once the snakebite knocked her brother down.”

  “It must be the luck of the Irish,” Tereze said, the three of them watching Erin and the Ranger turn a corner toward Mama Maria’s.

  “Yeah? Well, too bad her brother didn’t catch some of the luck,” Glory said. “Maybe he won’t be getting his ass sewn shut to keep the maggots out.” She turned with the final word on the matter, flipped her cigar away and walked back inside the cantina.

  “Oh my God, Hopper,” Tereze gasped, “does the barber really do that?”

  “Do what?” Hopper asked.

  Tereze said, “You know . . . what Glory said, about sewing his—”

  “Damn, Tereze, how the hell would I know?” said Hopper, cutting her off. “I’ve seen a few I wouldn’t mind sewing shut. Maybe a few days in that state would teach them some manners.”

  Tereze stared off with a pained expression. “I hope it’s not true. I hate to think of poor Bram lying down in the ground like that.”

  Hopper stared at her with a bemused expression and shook her head. “Yeah, if it started itching, he wouldn’t be able to scratch it?”

  Sidel Tereze looked sickened by the thought.

  “Jesus . . . ,” said Hopper. She put her arm in
Tereze’s arm and said, “Don’t listen to Glory. She’s apt to say most anything. How would she know what the barber does to a corpse before he buries it?”

  “Well,” said Sidel Tereze, “I’m glad for the mick gal. I hope she never ends up here, like we all did.”

  Behind them, Defoe stuck his head out of the cantina doors and shouted above the den of cursing and laughter coming from the bar, “Hey, you whores. Are you going to work today or what?”

  “We’re coming, Henri,” said Hopper. “By the way, your Ranger pal and Erin Donovan just turned the corner down there.”

  “Yeah? Where’d they go?” Defoe asked, stretching his neck out for a better look.

  “How do I know?” Hopper shrugged. “There’s nothing around there but Mama Maria’s. Maybe they went for some roasted goat and frijoles. It’s getting to be that time of day. Want me to keep watch and tell you when they come back?”

  Defoe looked off across the desert floor toward the distant hill line in contemplation.

  After a moment he said, “No, get on back to work. It’ll be evening before they get her brother buried. They won’t get far from here tonight.”

  After a meal of beans, roasted goat and red pepper gravy, the Ranger took out a gold coin and laid it on the table to pay for the meal.

  “You must allow me to pay for my own meal, Ranger Burrack,” Erin said, her eyes downturned.

  “I invited you, remember?” Sam replied.

  She raised her eyes and gave him a faint and obliging smile.

  “Yes . . . and thank you again,” she said.

  They both stood and walked out of the restaurant and back along the dusty street. Returning to the side door of the tonsorial, they were met by the town barber, Walden Reed, who ushered them inside a small viewing room.

  Sam stood at Erin’s side as she leaned over the edge of a pine-plank coffin sitting atop two sawbucks.

  “He looks so at peace now,” she said, almost in a whisper. She touched his waxy rouged cheek. “It’s as if he’s only sleeping.”

  Sam gave the barber a slight nod of approval. He could still make out indentations on either side of the dead man’s head where the entrance and exit wound had been covered with scraps of hair matching Bram’s as closely as possible, but this was not the time to be picky, Sam thought.