by Ron Schwab
Mouth of Hell
The Law Wranglers: Book 2
Ron Schwab
Poor Coyote Press
Contents
Also by Ron Schwab
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Afterword
Also by Ron Schwab
Sioux Sunrise
Paint the Hills Red
Ghosts Around the Campfire
The Lockes
Last Will
Medicine Wheel
The Law Wranglers
Deal with the Devil
Mouth of Hell
The Coyote Saga
Night of the Coyote
Return of the Coyote (forthcoming)
MOUTH OF HELL
by Ron Schwab
Poor Coyote Press
PO Box 6105
Omaha, NE 68106
www.PoorCoyotePress.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Ron Schwab
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews—without written permission from its publisher.
Cover Art: “Breaking Through the Lines” by Charles Schreyvogel
ISBN: 1-943421-17-X
ISBN-13: 978-1-943421-17-6
1
Josh Rivers sensed he was being followed. He hadn't caught as much as a glimpse of his stalkers, but there were two or three, he was fairly certain. His buckskin gelding seemed skittish, but the pack mule that trailed behind was unperturbed. He scolded himself for not having recruited his brother, Cal, for the mission. Cal, a former scout for Brevet General Ranald Mackenzie, would have pinpointed the pursuers an hour ago and likely taken them down. But his little brother had been smitten by a young woman they ransomed from the Comanche and, as far as Josh knew, was still holed up on her ranch in northeast New Mexico.
His rough-cut sibling had even clumsily midwifed the birth of Erin McKenna's half-blood baby on the trail. Choosing the name for baby girl Willow had welded the final link in the chain that locked Cal to Erin--for now, anyway. Josh was skeptical of his brother's attempt to sink roots.
He tossed another look over his shoulder. There was a possibility the trackers were not hostile. He had nudged the buckskin south from the Red River on the Texas side of the border with New Mexico several hours back. Perhaps they were Kwahadi Comanche confirming he was not accompanied by unwelcome visitors. The cavalry had launched another campaign to drive wayward Kiowa and Comanche back to the reservation near Fort Sill, Oklahoma and, of course, to conquer war chief Quanah and his band, who still ravaged Texas and eastern New Mexico and remained defiant. This would not be a time for trusting. Josh's destination was Little Buffalo Canyon, which a Mexican messenger had informed him was about three hours due south of a clump of large cottonwoods near a sharp turn in the river's course. It would be the only canyon in his path, he was told, and Quanah's emissaries were to rendezvous with him there. He should be less than an hour away. He reined in the buckskin as he approached a narrow ravine that was carved through a wall of cliffs that rose from the parched prairie like a rocky fortress and blocked his southward journey. It offered a natural passageway. It also presented a potential trap for the unwary. He decided he had no choice, and he nudged his horse ahead, entering the cut slowly with his eyes on the cliffs that reached some twenty-five or thirty feet above. But the attack came from behind him, and he heard the rifle fire in the same instant he felt the bullet slice the flesh between his neck and left shoulder. Josh pulled his Winchester from the saddle scabbard and swung his horse around, wincing from the pain as he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, suddenly aware of the blood soaking his shirt. He fired off two quick shots at the rider, who was some fifty yards behind him. The shooter wheeled his horse and raced away from Josh's fire. Josh, in turn, headed his horse for the exit from the gap.
He reined the horse carefully over the rough and rock-strewn arroyo floor, casting his eyes for a likely spot to seek cover and staunch his bleeding, for he could feel the weakness crawling through his limbs and fuzziness seeping into his head. Another shot rang out, echoing through the bluffs above, and he caught sight of another gunman on a ragged ledge some fifteen feet up in the rocks and thirty yards in front of him. A second shot scattered shale and kicked up dust a few feet from the buckskin's front hooves, and Josh slipped off of the horse and slapped the gelding's flank to move the animal out of the line of fire. The horse lunged forward and galloped down the trail with the mule following close behind. He staggered toward a fissure in the rock wall. It was barely wide enough to admit his rangy frame, but he squeezed in, protected now on three sides--also unable to get a bead on his attackers. While he waited, he pulled his hunting knife from its sheath and sliced off pieces of his shirt and pressed one fragment onto the double-holed wound created by the entrance and exit of the bullet. At least, he thought, the wound should have bled clean. This seemed to staunch the bleeding some. He could hear rock rattling and crunching on the arroyo floor, but his hideaway in the crevice offered only a narrow view straight in front of him. His cramped quarters made it difficult to maneuver the carbine into firing position. His wounded shoulder was on fire and stiffening, so he set it aside and pulled his Colt from its holster and held it in readiness. He could hear the low rumble of voices not far from the opening. He figured he had a fair chance of holding them off a spell, because he didn't see how they could get a clear shot at him without stepping into his line of fire. On the other hand, blood still trickled from his wound, and his water supply had departed with Buck and the pack mule. They could wait him out if they were not in a hurry. Well, he didn't have a choice. He would find out soon if they were into the waiting game.
He stood there silently for nearly an hour, keenly aware the blood flow from his wound was increasing. His head was swimming from vertigo, his legs weakening, and he knew he couldn't hold out much longer.
Suddenly, a high-pitched whiny voice broke the silence. "Hey there, Rivers. We've waited long enough. Time for you to come out and talk a spell."
He did not respond.
"You hear me, Rivers? We ain't got time to play hide and seek no more. There's three of us and one of you. We'll
blast you out of there if we have to. We just want to have a word with you, and then we'll be on our way."
"If you wanted to have a friendly chat, why did you ambush me?" he yelled back.
"Just wanted to get your attention, that's all."
"One of you can walk out in front of my line of fire, and I'll have my end of the discussion from here."
"You think we're damn fools? We ain't getting in nobody's line of fire. Forget that shit."
"Then I guess you'll have to come in firing, because I'm not going anywhere." They'd just as well have it out, he decided. He wasn't going to be on his feet much longer. He was comfortable and accurate with his Colt revolver, thanks to his father's insistence that all five of his brood, including Josh's sister, Tabby, meet the patriarch's rigid standards for handling firearms. He was confident he would take one or two of his adversaries with him.
His body was failing him, and he opted for surprise, suddenly lunging from his hideaway with his revolver ready to fire. There were three of them clustered off to the left side, not more than twenty-five feet away. Startled, they clawed frantically for their guns. Josh fired two quick shots and dived to the ground, rolled and raised his pistol for another shot. But his attackers were not in sight. His head was spinning, but he looked again and realized that all three men were sprawled on the ground. What the hell? Had he nailed three men with two shots? Then he saw the arrow shafts protruding from their bodies like pins from a cushion, and he could make out shadowy figures creeping slowly toward the fallen men. Darkness devoured him, and his pistol slipped from his hand and clattered on the rocky ground where he collapsed.
2
Danna Sinclair leaned back in her new oak swivel-chair and gazed out the open window that gave her a generous view of Santa Fe's Plaza and delivered the tantalizing smell of fresh-baked breads and other tempting morsels offered by the vendors along the streets and walkways. It was early May, but it was unseasonably warm, and although the thick adobe walls would keep the room comfortably cool throughout the remainder of the spring, she was feeling a little heat at the back of her neck.
Danna plucked an emerald-green ribbon from her desk drawer and gathered her long strawberry-blonde hair into what some westerners were starting to characterize as a ponytail. It left her with not so much of a professional appearance, she mused, but it was a hell of a lot more comfortable. Danna was well into the second year of her partnership with Josh Rivers, and she had prospered since abandoning her office in tiny Madison, which was located in the isolated northeast corner of New Mexico Territory.
The chair, with a leather cover tacked over a soft, cotton seat pad, was her sole frivolity--a concession to the excessive time she spent sitting on her butt these days. The office was otherwise austerely furnished with a single set of barrister bookcases stacked from floor to ceiling on one plastered wall and two captain's chairs on the opposite side of her desk. Her law diploma from the University of Virginia and her bar admission certificate from the Territorial Court hung on the wall behind her, one on each side of a large Regulator clock.
Some days she envied her law partner, Josh Rivers, who had an uncanny ability to evade sit-down office time. She had met Josh when he associated with her on a case she was handling for the aunt of a young woman, Erin McKenna, who had been abducted by the Comanche. Her father had been killed during a Comanche raid and had died without leaving a will. Her father's brother, Oliver McKenna, had commenced legal action to have Erin declared dead and himself ruled as the only heir to her father's vast land holdings. Josh and his brother, Cal, had ransomed Erin from Comanche war chief, Quanah, and returned with the young woman and her infant daughter to Santa Fe just in time to demolish the uncle's claim. In the course of the case Danna and Josh had formed a business alliance, and the McKenna fee had given the new firm a good start.
An unexpected windfall from the McKenna ransom had been acquisition of a new firm client, Quanah, known by some as Quanah Parker, whose mother, Cynthia Ann Parker, had been abducted as a child and raised as a Comanche. Quanah had handed over a handsome retainer in gold nuggets to employ Josh to pave the trail to favorable peace terms for the Kwahadi band and its Comanche and Kiowa allies.
She glanced up at the wall clock, its pendulum ticking with unnecessary volume, she thought. Usually, she did not notice the timekeeper's rhythmic click-clack, but this morning she found it a bit annoying, as she waited for her next scheduled appointment to show up.
An unidentified agent of a prospective client had made the appointment, promising Linda de la Cruz, the firm's young secretary, Danna would want to talk with this person. There was an important and serious message to be delivered.
This had all piqued Danna's curiosity, but the client was due within five minutes if he was inclined to punctuality. If not, there would be a five-minute reprieve. After that, Danna would not accommodate the caller's visit. Danna Sinclair was nothing if not punctual.
3
There was a soft tapping on the office door. "Yes?"
Linda opened the door. "Your appointment, Mr. Clayborne Pierce, is here."
"Show him in."
Pierce entered the room, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes casting about the room, obviously checking out his surroundings--probably from force of habit--before he extended his hand to Danna. "Miss Sinclair?"
"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Pierce."
She gestured to one of the chairs in front of her desk near the open window and sat down in her own chair across from him. Danna noted that the man was well-tailored, but his gray suit draped loosely on a bony frame. His face was sun-weathered and leathery, and a bushy, black mustache nearly hid his upper lip. When he had entered the room she observed he stood ramrod straight, suggesting a military history. In his boots he stood about six feet tall, so they were close to a match for height.
Danna got right to the point. "You're something of a mystery, Mr. Pierce. Whoever made your appointment declined to divulge your name. This all seems very clandestine."
"Let's just say I'm very careful. It's a matter of habit and occupation, you might say." He pushed back an unruly shock of black hair from his forehead.
Danna decided he was younger than she originally guessed. He was probably in his late thirties or early forties, aged prematurely by a hard, outdoor life, perhaps. She actually found him handsome in a very rugged, rough-hewn way. "And may I ask what occupation you are engaged in? I have a hunch your work is directly related to your visit here."
He gazed out the window a moment, like he was looking for something in the azure sky, before he turned back and spoke. "Some folks call me a bounty hunter. I prefer to identify myself as a private searcher. You see, while I might occasionally track down someone of the criminal ilk, I most often search for folk who have disappeared. More recently, I have found the hunt for Comanche captives to be quite profitable."
Danna was uncertain where this was leading. "My guess is that you have some military experience."
"West Point. Fourth Calvary. Served as a captain out of Fort Riley, Kansas until I decided I wasn't cut out for career army. After that I hired out to traders traveling on the Santa Fe Trail for protection services."
"And that led you to ransoming captives?"
"Yes, that and the good luck I ran into by teaming up with a young Tonkawa warrior on one of the freighter jobs."
"Tonkawa. The cannibals."
"So they say. But Screeching Owl has never tried to eat me, and as near as I can tell, he's most partial to buffalo ribs. He was a Comanche captive himself for almost three years before he escaped. He might have stuck around, but because the tribes are ancient enemies, he was never given status much above a slave. His band would adopt about anybody else into the tribe . . . whites, Negroes, Mexicans. Anybody but a Tonkawa."
Danna was growing impatient. She could not tell where this conversation was headed. "I am afraid I have other business waiting, Mr. Pierce. I have to ask why you require my legal services."
"I unders
tand, ma'am, but it is quite the opposite. I think you . . . or I should say, your partner . . . may need my services."
Danna remained silent and looked at Pierce with annoyance.
"You see," Pierce said, "Screeching Owl knows the location of Josh Rivers's captive son."
Danna was taken aback and found she was untypically speechless for a moment. "He is alive then?"
"He was certainly alive two weeks ago."
"And how do you know this? Have you seen him?"
"Screeching Owl has a Comanche friend in the camp of the band that holds the boy."
"You said the Comanche hate the Tonkawa, and you are telling me your associate has a Comanche friend?"
"The type of friend who can be bought."
"So why have you chosen to speak with me about this? My partner is the one you should have contacted."
"First, I have learned that Mr. Rivers is currently absent from Santa Fe. He is also said to be quite obsessed about his missing son . . . understandably so. And some say he is not so civilized that he has totally abandoned the law of the gun. I was not comfortable with the possible irrationality of his reaction to this information . . . and, in particular, to my proposal."
"And how could you be certain of my reaction?"
"You sincerely empathize with your partner, I am sure, but you don't have the same emotional investment in his misfortune. I think I surmised correctly . . . you seem quite rational about this."
"You have a proposal you wish to have me carry to my partner?"
"Yes, I propose to ransom the Rivers boy. I will require one thousand dollars in advance for my services. An additional one thousand will be payable when I return with terms acceptable to Mr. Rivers, and I would expect the further sum of one thousand dollars upon return of the boy to his rightful family. If I cannot negotiate terms, I forfeit the final two payments, but if I am not successful in negotiating terms, I will inform your partner of the boy's location, and he may do as he will. Funds for the remaining payments would be held in an escrow account by a Santa Fe bank with appropriate instructions to disburse payment upon submitting evidence of satisfaction of the conditions. The fees are for my services. The ransom would be Mr. Rivers' additional cost."
