Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  Erin looked into his smoldering eyes, feeling the tip of his gun barrel beneath her left breast.

  “For God’s sake, no!” said Erin. “The squirrel stabbed him. Luis must have been out of his mind. You heard what he said, that I’m carrying his baby! You know better than that!”

  Teto searched her eyes for any sign of deception as the rumble of hooves grew stronger.

  “It’s—it’s true I’m carrying a child, Teto,” Erin said, “but it’s your child. It could belong to no one else. I told Luis about it.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I thought you would both be happy about it.” He voice trembled. “I had no idea Luis felt the way he did about me.”

  “Por favor. Don’t cry, my Irish princess,” Teto said. He lowered his Colt, uncocked it and drew her close to him. “You stay here and keep down out of sight. I don’t know who is coming, but I am certain they are not our friends.”

  Lying on the ground beneath the crest of the rise, the Ranger had felt the rumble of hooves in the earth beneath him long before he’d caught sight of a rising dust drift upward west of the town. When he did see the dust streaming and swirling behind the riders, he turned the Swiss rifle toward them just to see them through the scope. At the head of the riders, he recognized the rurale posse leader.

  Just now getting here . . . , the Ranger told himself, seeing the leader’s face close up in the scope, through dust, sunlight and wavering heat. “You couldn’t have arrived at a worse time,” he murmured to himself.

  The rurale leader’s expression was set fiercely in both anger and determination. Sam studied his face through the scope for a moment longer, then lowered the rifle and let out a breath. Whatever plans he’d had would have to wait. It made him no difference if the Mexican posse wiped out the Gun Killers all by themselves. But that was highly unlikely, he reminded himself.

  He had started to turn his scope back to the street in Rosas Salvajes when a bullet streaked in and thumped into the dirt near his right elbow. Turning quickly toward the sound of a rifle shot, he saw riders coming toward him fast—but he held his fire. These weren’t Gun Killers. These were two of the rurales he’d seen dragging the dead horse down the street in San Pelipe.

  “Drop the gun! Drop the gun!” one of them shouted as they raced in closer and slid their horses sideways to a halt thirty feet from him.

  Sam laid the Swiss rifle carefully on the ground, took his hands away from it and raised them.

  “On your feet!” the excited rurale ordered. “Do it now!”

  Sam stood up slowly, his hands still in plain sight.

  The two recognized him, he was certain. Turning to each other, they spoke in voices too low and fast for him to hear.

  “You are the Americano lawman from Nogales—the one we met in San Felipe!” the excited one said, his rifle pointed at Sam.

  “I knew that,” Sam said calmly, staring at him.

  “Lift your pistol and drop it,” the other man demanded.

  “No, wait!” said the excited one, not liking the idea of this lawman getting his hand on a gun. “Get on the ground,” he ordered. Then quickly he corrected himself. “No, wait. Stay on your feet!”

  “Make up your mind,” Sam said. He paused, his hand halfway to the butt of his holstered Colt. “I don’t have time for all this.”

  “You will make time, Señor Lawman,” said the excited rurale. He turned to the other man and said, “Julio, get his gun and rifle. I have him covered.”

  “Sí, Eduardo,” said Julio. He stepped down from his saddle and walked forward, a big French-made revolver in his hand.

  Sam cut a glance toward the distant street as heavy gunfire erupted. The other rurales descended onto the town in a looming swirl of dust—dust that had already begun to obscure everything from sight. The rurales rode back and forth, shooting at the cantina and at anyone foolish enough to let themselves be seen.

  “I hope you fellows brought shovels,” Sam said quietly, lifting his Colt and handing it to Julio, who stood in front of him.

  “Don’t worry, lawman. We have plenty of shovels,” Eduardo said with a smug grin, not catching the implication in Sam’s words.

  Sam let out a long breath as the shooting from the distant street intensified.

  “Careful with the rifle, Julio,” he said as the young man picked up the Swiss rifle and turned it back and forth in his hands.

  “Don’t worry, lawman,” said the rurale. He lowered his rifle barrel a little now that he considered Sam unarmed. “Once Raul has taken down the Gun Killers, you will get these back. We do not want you getting in our way while we do what must be done.”

  “I understand,” Sam said, keeping his hands chest high, watching the young Mexican look the big Swiss rifle over, deciding how to disassemble it. “Do you mind if I break the rifle down?” he asked. “It might be quicker.”

  “Julio, give him the rifle before you shoot your foot off,” said Eduardo. “But keep an eye on him.” He stared hard at the Ranger. “If he tries anything, shoot him.”

  In Rosa Salvajes, the shooting continued to intensify. The dust had grown to such a thick swell that all Sam and the two rurales could see were the blossoms of blue-orange gunfire streaking back and forth between the mounted posse and the hard-fighting, besieged Gun Killers. Behind the cantina, Sam watched a string of riders race up out of the dust along a hillside and bound out of sight over a rise.

  Sam shook his head as he quickly took the Swiss rifle apart and placed it and the scope inside the wooden box. He closed the box on the ground, stood up and stepped back.

  “There you are,” he said as he raised his hands chest high again. He gestured a nod toward the gun battle. “The quicker we get down there, the quicker your men can stop shooting one another.”

  “You make me laugh, you gringo lawman,” the mounted rurale said. “You always think you know everything.” To Julio he said, “Get on your horse and keep this one between us.”

  “Sí, Eduardo,” the young Mexican said. He started toward his horse with the Swiss rifle case under his arm. But Sam stopped him and took the case.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll carry the rifle case,” he said.

  The two looked at him. “No,” Eduardo said. “You will get the rifle back only when Raul says you may have it. We are sick of you Americanos coming here thinking you can tell us to do whatever you want.”

  Sam clenched his jaw and kept his mouth shut as he swung up onto his saddle.

  “Ready when you are,” he said.

  Chapter 26

  When the Ranger and the rurales drew near Rosas Salvajes, the thick, blinding cloud of dust had begun to lift above the town and drift across the rocky land. The firing had stopped. Only a thin rise of dust stood above the path the Gun Killers had used as an escape route. Sam shook his head, realizing how many of the outlaws had gotten away. He hoped that among them Erin Donovan had managed to stay alive.

  At the edge of town, the rurale leader’s horse came pounding up to them. The big Mexican’s hat was missing. He had tied a bandanna around his forehead to cover a bullet graze. He looked stunned by the fierceness with which the Gun Killers had faced his posse.

  “They got away?” he said to Sam in the form of a question, a strange look on his face. “We could see nothing in the dust but dust. They got among us. We could not fight without shooting our own.” He gave his strange look to Eduardo and Julio. “They have killed my posse!”

  “I figured they would,” the Ranger said. “These men are no easy kill.”

  “They killed all of our men?” Eduardo cut in.

  “All but three,” said Raul. “Those three are in pursuit of the killers right now.”

  “In pursuit?” Sam said, his very tone implying the foolishness of such an act.

  “Sí, I sent them in pursuit,” said the leader defensively. He looked Sam up and down. “Do you say sending them was a mistake?”

  “A bad mistake,” Sam responded, still gazing off along the high hillside trai
l. “You need to go stop them before it’s too late.”

  As if on cue, a hard volley of rifle shots resounded in the distance, from the path the Gun Killers had taken.

  Sam let out a low breath and shook his head again.

  “Never mind,” he said quietly.

  Raul appeared enraged, but he subdued his anger and said, “I will ride them down myself, as soon as we have buried our dead.” He looked at Eduardo and Julio. “Eduardo, go bring the townspeople out of hiding. Tell them we need shovels to bury our dead.”

  “Sí, Raul,” said Eduardo, avoiding Sam’s knowing stare. “Come, Julio,” he said. He started to turn his horse away.

  “Wait a minute, Julio,” said Sam. He reached over and jerked the Swiss rifle case from under the young Mexican’s arm. “My Colt, too,” he said, holding out a hand toward Julio.

  Julio gave Raul a questioning look.

  “Yes, damn it, give him his gun,” said Raul, as if disgusted with Julio.

  Sam took the Colt, checked and holstered it. He gave Julio a nod.

  The two rurales turned their horses toward the dusty street as heads began to peep out from doorways and windows.

  “Let me be honest with you, lawman,” said Raul with a sigh. He touched his fingers to his bandaged head, examining his wound as he spoke. “I have much to do. I am going to need your help.”

  Sam looked him up and down.

  “I don’t dig graves,” he said. He turned his dun and started to tap his heels to its sides.

  “Santa Madre! Look at this!” Raul said in disbelief.

  Sam turned in his saddle and saw a gunman staggering toward them from the alley beside the Perros Malos Cantina. The entire length of the gunman was soaked with blood. He left a trail of bloody footprints behind him. A knife handle stuck from the center of his chest; his gun hung from his right hand. His left hand held the strap to a canteen.

  Raul jerked his pistol from across his chest, but Sam raised a hand toward him.

  “No, wait,” Sam said, stopping the rurale leader from shooting the wounded outlaw. “Let’s see what this one has to say.”

  Luis Torres staggered in place and crumpled to the ground just as Sam swung down from his saddle, rifle case still in hand, and ran to him. Stooping down, Sam laid the rifle case in the dirt and raised the wounded man’s head onto his knee. He looked at the bloody face closely.

  “Luis Torres?” Sam said, recognizing him from a wanted poster in Nogales.

  “Yes, yes, I am Luis,” the outlaw groaned. “Get away from me. . . . I am cursed.”

  “You’re dying, Torres,” Sam said bluntly. “It wasn’t one of this posse who stuck that knife in your chest. Who did it?”

  “The . . . woman. The mother of my child . . . ,” Luis said, his words ending in a deep, wet-sounding cough.

  Sam knew there was only one woman he could be talking about.

  “Erin did this to you?” he asked, not doubting it for a second.

  Luis nodded and grasped Sam’s shirtsleeve. “Am I cursed to hell . . . forever?”

  “You’ll have to take it up with God,” Sam said. “Where are the Gun Killers headed? What are their plans from here.”

  “Plans . . . ?” said Luis. “No plans . . . not while you dog us so closely.”

  Good, Sam thought, his persistence had paid off. Had he not been on their trail, they might have gone off on another mission to rob and kill. He’d kept them too busy dodging him. He had forced them into this showdown—would have ended it here, had the rurales not ridden in unexpectedly and spoiled everything.

  “Was it the posse who shot you?” he asked, recalling the gunshots from the cantina before the rurales rode in.

  “No . . . my brother, Teto . . . shot me,” Luis said. He managed a thin, weak smile. “Arrest him . . . eh?”

  Sam only stared at him, knowing he wouldn’t be breathing much longer.

  “Over the woman,” Sam said, not liking the picture that was coming to his mind. “Because she’s carrying your baby.”

  “Sí . . . ,” Luis said with a deep sigh. His eyes went to the knife handle standing on his chest. “She is . . . a bad woman,” he said, shaking his head slowly.

  “So it seems,” Sam replied, not liking to have finally and so completely admitted it to himself.

  “She caused me to . . . do my brother wrong,” Luis said, fading fast. His eyes began to glaze over and look away aimlessly.

  No, that was your fault, the Ranger said silently, realizing it did no good to tell Luis while he drew his last breath. He must have known it anyway, Sam thought as he reached a hand down and closed the outlaw’s eyes.

  “What did he tell you?” Raul asked, stepping over from his horse with his pistol drawn and cocked.

  “Nothing helpful,” Sam said. He stood, picked up his rifle case and walked back to the dun.

  Raul uncocked his pistol and shoved it back into his holster.

  “You tell me!” he demanded. “I will decide if it is helpful or not.”

  “Go home, Raul,” Sam said as he tied his rifle case under his bedroll.

  “Go home, you tell me! How dare you say such a thing,” Raul shouted. He pounded himself on the chest. “Mexico is my home—what’s left of it after you gringos cut it, divide it and steal it one piece at a time!”

  “Right,” Sam said flatly, turning to him with a cold stare, “I almost forgot.”

  He swung up into his saddle and adjusted his dusty sombrero.

  “Where are you going?” Raul demanded. “I am not through talking!”

  “Yes, you are,” Sam said, turning his horse away from the hillside and the trail the Gun Killers had taken.

  Seeing his direction, Raul called out, “You are running away from them?”

  “They’re stirred up like hornets. I’m riding around them until they settle,” Sam said. “You three would be wise to do the same.”

  “No,” said Raul, “the three of us will not run around them. We will ride them down and kill them as soon as we bury our dead.”

  The Ranger looked down the dusty street at the dead men and horses strewn about. Julio, Eduardo and some townspeople walked among the dead, shovels in hand. One of the doves from the cantina stood watching, wrapped in a bedsheet, smoking a thin cigar.

  “Vaya con Dios,” Sam said to Raul. “Take a shovel with you.”

  In the rocks behind the livery barn, Hector had lain on the hillside, hugging the ground as bullets flew in the street below. He had kept an arm over the sacks of money beside him as if they were living things. He’d even watched through swollen eyes as Erin, Teto Torres and five of the remaining Gun Killers ran from the rear of the cantina into the barn and raced out moments later atop any horses they could get their hands on—most of their own horses lay dead in the street, shot down at the hitch rails by the rurales.

  When the woman had ridden out of the barn, she’d led two horses behind her. Hector saw her look in his direction as she turned loose of the two spare horses’ reins. He’d watched the horses race away, but veer off from the rest of the riders and slow to halt farther up the hillside.

  What was her intention? he asked himself. Had she left the horses for him? He believed so. Yet, did she not think he would take the money and ride away, never to be seen again? She could have told Teto and the Gun Killers he was there hiding with the money, he reminded himself. He would be dead, and they would have split the money and ridden on. At least she would have had a share. As it turned out, she would have nothing now, unless he—the squirrel—could be trusted to keep her share safe for her.

  With great pain in his chest, his cracked ribs and his badly beaten head, Hector gathered the tops of the sacks of money in his right hand. He crawled on his belly, pulling himself up the hillside with his free hand toward the two loose horses. He would show her what a squirrel would do.

  When he had gotten to the spare horses, one turned and trotted away. But the other horse stayed put, staring at his battered face curiously unt
il he reached out and took a hold of its dangling reins.

  “Ah, I can see you are a good caballo,” he whispered in a strained voice.

  Pulling himself up the horse’s sides, the two sacks in hand, he loosened both strings on the sack tops, tied them together and draped them over the horse’s back behind the saddle. It would have to do for now, he told himself. Looking back down the hillside, he saw two of the rurales and some townspeople walk out the rear door of his cantina and head for the livery barn.

  “I will be back . . . to claim what is mine,” he whispered to himself in a ragged voice. He hefted himself up onto the saddle with much effort, pain throbbing throughout his body. Lying forward on the horse’s neck, reins in hand, he whispered, “Take me away from here, caballo. I have seen far too much.”

  Five miles along the hill trail, Teto, Paco Sterns and Truman Filo had climbed down from the rocks and stood over the bodies of the three rurales who had followed them from Rosas Salvajes.

  “Gather their horses,” Teto said, his gun belt hanging over his shoulder. As he spoke, he reloaded his smoking pistol. “We’ll be needing them before long.”

  Climbing down from the rocks behind them, Wade Carrico, Ludlow Blake and Jete Longley stepped out on the trail—all that remained of the Gun Killers that had been in Rosas Salvajes when the shooting started.

  “We lost two spare horses when your lady-friend let them get away,” Carrico said, gesturing toward Erin, who stood off to the side, her forearms wrapped around her midsection.

  “Are you going to start arguing again?” Teto asked in a warning tone, clicking his reloaded revolver shut and staring hard at Carrico.

  “No,” said Carrico, unafraid. “If you don’t give a damn, neither do I. I was just curious why she let them go, is all.”

  Teto considered the matter. Then he turned to Erin and said, “Why did you let the spare horses go?”

  “For God’s sake, Teto,” Erin said in a shaky voice. “I was scared, and sick . . . and being shot at.”