Big Bend

by John Benteen

  Ramsey saw a shallow wash a few paces ahead of them. He jerked her forward, pulled her down into its foot-deep depression, and covered her body with his own, as she retched dryly beneath him. Then from nowhere, the figure of a running man loomed almost above them. He carried a rifle. As Ramsey eared back the hammer of the Colt, the man leaped the ditch not two feet away and sped on towards the houses—a guard coming in. Ramsey watched him until he was a hundred yards past, then eased the hammer down.

  He stood up, crouched low, and dragged Nora to her feet. They stumbled on, and Ramsey thought he knew where he was now. The machine-gun bursts on the mountain were shorter, terser; Concho’s ammunition was running out.

  They almost fell into the arroyo. It was deep, and it ran in the direction of the horses. Ramsey seized Nora and pulled her over the edge; they descended in a cloud of dust and gravel. At the bottom, he held her against him. “Not far now,” he panted. “Can you go on?”

  “Yes,” she wheezed. “Sam, can’t believe ... thought you and Concho both dead. Oh, thank God.” For a moment, she buried her face against his chest; Ramsey held her and watched the arroyo rim, but it was all worth it now, even the shooting of the horses. Then she raised her head. “Sorry ... was so drunk. But Kelly hurt me so bad ... If I’d known ... ”

  “Forget it,” he rasped. “Come on.” With his arm about her, he led her down the arroyo. Behind them the character of the firing had changed; the machine gun could no longer be heard, only the sporadic rattle of rifle fire. While they ran, Ramsey punched fresh cartridges into his Colt, for Nora no longer constantly needed his support.

  They stuck to the arroyo as long as Ramsey dared. Then they struggled up over its rim, and Ramsey knew for sure where he was now. The country was so broken, they could only jogtrot, but it offered cover and seemed deserted. The firing grew more distant.

  Now Ramsey recognized the mouth of a draw. He pulled Nora into it, and they ran along its twisting length, its banks rising above them. Suddenly, as they rounded a bend, Ramsey halted, threw up the gun. Like a ghost, a giant black shape had materialized in front of them.

  “Hold yo’ fire!” Concho’s voice snapped; and Ramsey saw that Concho had a rifle pointed at him. Then the Negro’s voice changed. “Did you git her?”

  “Concho!” Nora gasped. She pulled away from Ramsey and staggered forward.

  “Noracita! Oh, thank God.” Concho’s voice trembled, and his long arms went about her and he held her tightly against him for a moment. Then he released her, and Ramsey strode forward and took her arm. Concho’s voice was sharp. “Kelly. Whut about him?”

  “He’s dead,” Ramsey snapped, suddenly full of a strange rage. “Goddammit, did you have to shoot the horses?”

  “Why leave ’em somethin’ to chase us with? ’Sides, when them lights come on, I had to do somethin’. Couldn’t rake them houses for fear of hittin’ y’all.”

  “That corral was full of my Morgans,” Ramsey said bitterly.

  “Tough.” Concho turned away. “Wish we had one of ’em, now, though. We gonna hafta ride double.” They followed him up the draw a dozen paces until the shapes of the horses became visible in the darkness. “Nora, you git up in front of Ramsey. I’ll come along behind and take care of anybody might have a notion to follow us.” He unslung one of the two rifles on his back and handed it to Ramsey. “Here’s yo’ Springfield, still loaded. Now, let’s move out, while they still up on the mountain swarmin’ over that machine-gun nest ... ”

  Chapter Eleven

  They made the best time they could under cover of darkness, but not enough. The country was rough and broken, the horses had been too long without good graze and sufficient water, and the one Ramsey and Nora rode grunted sullenly under their combined weight. Ramsey held the reins, his arms about Nora, and in the darkness she leaned back against him. She still smelled of cheap whiskey and vomit, but her hair, under Ramsey’s nose, had a clean fragrance. Neither spoke; she was still groggy and suffering; he was content to hold her like that.

  Just before dawn, Concho had them pull up. “Nora, how you makin’ it?”

  “I’ll live,” she said with a touch of gallows humor in her voice.

  “We better swap hawses,” Concho said. “Give that ’un a rest.” He glanced at the sky. “Be light in a minute er two. I’m gonna climb that butte and take a look at our backtrail.” He faded away up a hill like a wreath of morning mist.

  On the ground, Nora leaned against Ramsey. “Sam, I’m so damned ashamed of myself. After what you went through to get to me, finding me ... drunk as a pig.”

  “Forget it,” Ramsey said. “It’s all over. Just forget it ever happened.” He held her tightly. “A couple more days and maybe we’ll be out of this devil’s country.”

  “Oh, God, will we ever?” Nora said. “I hope I never see it again.”

  The sun rose with amazing speed; light flooded the badlands almost as if someone had flipped a switch. Ramsey jerked around as Concho came sliding back down the hill.

  His dust-powdered face wore a grin. “No sign of them. They still runnin’ around like ants in a stepped-on hill. I bet—” He broke off as, for the first time, he saw Nora’s face in full light. The grin faded, and he strode forward and cupped her chin in his hand. “Lemme look at you,” he rasped. Then he turned to Ramsey, eyes lambent. “Kelly did that?”

  Ramsey nodded.

  Concho drew in a deep breath. “How’d he die?”

  “He jumped me,” Ramsey said. “I shot him three times.”

  “I knowed I should have gone,” Concho said in a terrible voice. “I’da rammed a rag in his mouth and spent about a half hour killin’ him slow.”

  “It’s all right, Concho,” Nora said, turning her face away. “It’ll heal.” She took a step away from Ramsey. “Kelly didn’t do anything to me that hadn’t been done before.”

  Ramsey faced Concho. “The main thing,” he said sharply, “is that it’s over. We ain’t talkin’ about it anymore, you understand? It’s over.”

  Concho’s eyes locked with his. Then understanding came into them. “Yeah,” he said. “You right.” He took a canteen from the saddle and turned to Nora. “Honey.” His voice was gentle. “Don’t you wanta take a little of this water and clean yourself up?”

  Nora disappeared behind a clump of brush. Concho turned back to Ramsey, his eyes half-hooded. “Listen,” he said in a low voice, “lemme tell you somethin’. That gal’s all rattled. Husband killed right before her eyes, not two weeks ’go, then abused by that hawg Kelly ... She ain’t in no condition right now to think straight, you remember that. You took her away from Kelly, natch’lly she gonna be grateful for that. But that don’t mean—”

  Ramsey said, slowly and distinctly, “Concho, you mind your own goddam business.”

  “Nora is my business,” Concho whispered savagely, and there was savagery, too, in his eyes. “Don’t you ever fergit that for one minnit, friend.”

  Before Ramsey could answer, Nora appeared from behind the bushes. She had rinsed her mouth, washed her face, and unsnarled the worst of the tangles in her hair. She halted and looked at the two men standing face to face, and then she said, in a clear voice, “I feel a lot better now. Hadn’t we better ride on?”

  Slowly, Concho’s taut body relaxed. His eyes met Ramsey’s one last time; then he turned away. “All right, Noracita,” he said gently. “Come, I give you a leg up.”

  Nora suggested riding for the burned ranch, watering the horses there, and resting for the day in the cave, but Concho vetoed that. “That ranch a spot that draw down the lightnin’,” he said, and he told her how they had got the horses. “It ain’t Sheep Kelly’s outfit I worried about no more; they bound to be all disorganized. Right now, they probably quarrelin’ over who’s in charge with Sheep daid. Whut we got to look out for is Mescans, Leon Sanchez’ bunch. He got Yaqui trailers that can foller a fly across a glass window, and they gonna be lookin’ for them two men I shot. They bound to trace ’em far as
the ranch.”

  “Which way we head, then?” Ramsey asked.

  “Due north. Git out of this territory fast as we can. On top of ever’thing else, they bound to heard that shootin’ last night, they’ll be ridin’ over from San Vicente and Boquillas to see what it all about. They be thick as fleas down here; we got to git clear ’fore we run into ’em.”

  Ramsey said, “We’re American citizens on American soil—”

  Concho laughed, a short and ugly sound. “And on Mescan horses we killed two greasers to git.”

  “If they take us,” Ramsey said, “these horses came out of Sheep Kelly’s corral. Don’t anybody forget that.”

  “They ain’t gonna take us if we make tracks,” Concho said. He lashed his horse with the reins. “Let’s git outa here!”

  They pushed the animals as hard as they dared, traveling now across high desert, tabletop flat, cutting, Concho said, for the old Comanche Trail north. The horses lathered badly, went grudgingly. Unless they got more than the pint of water each he and Concho had spared them from the canteen, they weren’t going to last, Ramsey knew. But he also knew that every mile they could make right now meant that much more safety, and he pushed his weary mount ruthlessly.

  Nora was a good rider; hands on the horn, she leaned back in Ramsey’s encircling arms and was even able to talk at the pace they struck.

  “Sam, I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Sorry about what?”

  “That you didn’t get back your horses.”

  His arms tightened about her. “Forget the horses,” he said thickly.

  “But you said they were all you had. What will you do now—when you get back to North Wells?”

  “My ranch is free and clear. I’ve got a little savin’s. Take that, put a mortgage on the place, buy some stock and start over.”

  “Start over,” Nora said. “That has a wonderful sound to it. You’re so lucky to be able to say it.”

  It was a moment before Ramsey answered. Then he said, “You can say it, too.”

  Nora only laughed, a strange sound with a metallic ring. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Sam Ramsey.”

  “A lot I do, too.”

  He felt her body stiffen. “What do you mean?”

  He told her about Concho’s delirium. “I know where Stewart found you and how you got there.”

  “Oh, God,” she said with hopelessness. And then she said, resignedly, “Well, you were bound to find out.” That brassy sound came back to her voice. “Don’t you feel like a fool, risking your life for someone like me?”

  “Shut up!” Ramsey said fiercely. “I told you it was over. Not only with Kelly. All of it.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “I ruin everything I touch. Poor Hank ... Even that swine Kelly’s dead because of me ... Everything. I should have stayed in Baton Rouge. Maybe I’ll go back there.”

  “No, you won’t,” Ramsey said. “We’re going to North Wells.”

  A kind of shiver rippled over her body. Then she said, “You’re forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “Concho,” Nora said.

  Ramsey was silent for a moment. Then he said, “He’s in love with you. I don’t mean loves you. I mean in love with you.”

  “Which is a crime, of course.” There was an edge to Nora’s voice.

  “All right,” Ramsey said. “It’s none of my business.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Yes, it is. I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not true, Sam. In my whole life, only three men have been kind to me—Hank Stewart, you, and Concho. And of all three, he’s the only one that couldn’t hope to gain anything by it.”

  “I see,” Ramsey murmured.

  “Sam—” She tried to turn in the saddle. At that moment, behind them, there was a yell from Concho. Ramsey reined around. Concho was gesturing toward the south. A long plume of dust arose to stain the morning sky.

  “Riders!” Concho bawled. “Mescans!” He gestured toward the west, where, a few miles distant, the Chisos Mountains reared their blue bulk amidst broken country, like a fortress. “Ride for cover!”

  Cursing, Ramsey reined the protesting horse around. He saw now why the Mexican whose boots he wore had also worn the big-roweled spurs. Break a horse’s spirit and you had to torture it to make it give all it had. But he’d discarded those spurs; now he lashed the tired and laboring animal with the reins.

  The dust had peeled out from behind a range of buttes; now it widened its front. Ten, fifteen riders, Ramsey guessed. The horse was running better now; he locked Nora in his arms to hold her steady. Maybe they could make the Chisos, with the head start they had—but what then? They could stand the Mexicans off for a while, but unless they could fort up where there was water—He quit thinking, bending every effort to get the last ounce of speed out of the foaming horse.

  Only three miles, four; surely the horse could make it. But the dust was closing fast. The Mexicans’ mounts were fresh, well-fed, well-watered. Already, craning his head over his shoulder, he could see, through shimmering heat waves, the actual forms of riders in the van of the dust cloud.

  Mercilessly, he lashed and kicked the horse. Beneath his legs, its flanks pumped like bellows. He was intensely alert to the rhythm of its pounding hoofs, dreading any faltering. They soared across shallow dry washes, crashed through creosote. Nora was holding tightly to the horse’s mane and the saddle horn. Behind, Concho had to rein in to keep from passing them.

  The Chisos were closer now. Two miles would see them in country where there was at least a chance to find cover. Their vast, blue bulk blotted out the sky.

  And then the horse faltered, stumbled, almost fell, and broke into an awkward, limping trot.

  Ramsey knew immediately what had happened, and his heart sank. He passed the reins to Nora, swung down, and as Concho pulled up, Ramsey was already lifting the animal’s forefoot.

  “What happened?” Concho yelled, veins standing out on his forehead.

  “Threw a goddam shoe!” It dangled from a single bent nail. The animal had been cold-shod, the nails not properly clenched. The hoof was split and maimed. Ramsey cursed and wrenched the last nail out, flung the shoe away and let the horse’s foot drop. Then he turned and pulled Nora from the saddle.

  “Git up in front of Concho!” he rasped. “He knows this country.” He unslung the Springfield, loosened the blanket roll in which spare cartridges were stored. “I’ll slow them down.”

  “No! They’ll kill you, Sam!”

  “Goddam it, don’t argue. Take her, Concho!” Ramsey wrestled her over to the Negro’s mount. She kicked and squirmed savagely. “No, Sam!” she cried. “Please, don’t—”

  Concho swung down, his massive arm encircling her. He looked at Ramsey strangely. Then he said, slowly, almost sadly, “You two go on. Head between them two mountains yonder; there’s water there.” He reached for Ramsey’s blanket roll. “I’ll shoot this lame critter and fort up behind him. I wish I had Kelly’s Lewis gun now.”

  There was no time to argue. Ramsey shoved Nora to Concho’s horse. “Git up!” he snapped.

  But suddenly, with amazing strength, she wrenched away from him. She grabbed one of the extra rifles from its boot. “No!” she snapped, breasts heaving beneath the denim jacket. “Damn it, I can shoot, too. With three good rifles against them—”

  Ramsey struck down the gun. “Don’t be a fool. There’s no cover!” At that moment, Concho’s horse grunted, lurched. Simultaneously, Ramsey heard the distant bark of a rifle. Slowly, as if it were very weary, the horse sagged down, then fell over.

  It had been between them and the riders. Now Ramsey could see a man in the forefront mounting up again, rifle in his hand. The dust cloud came on, at a slower pace, and Concho said, savagely, “Well, that’s that.” His hand shoved at Nora’s shoulder. “Git down behind that dead hawse, girl!”

  “No, Concho,” Ramsey said quietly and he tossed his Springfield away. Th
en he reached over and took the rifle from Nora and threw it after his own.

  Concho stared at him. “You outa your mind?”

  Ramsey was unbuckling his cartridge belt. “You’re out of yours,” he said. “You want to get Nora shot? We can’t fight and we can’t run. All we can do is surrender.

  “Raise your hands,” Ramsey said to Nora. “High.” He did the same, as she slowly, hesitantly, obeyed.

  Concho’s voice faltered. “They’ll shoot us down where we stand.”

  “Maybe not, if we don’t give ’em any reason.”

  “Sam’s right, Concho,” Nora said, her voice actually relieved, as if glad to have the issue settled. “It’s the only thing we can do.”

  Concho looked from one to the other. Then he said, “But you don’t know Sanchez.” He let out a long, shuddering breath. Sun glinted off the weapons and gear of the oncoming Mexicans. “Hell,” he said, “it’s too late now,” and disgustedly he tossed the Springfield aside, unbuckled his gun belt, and raised his own hands.

  And that was how they were standing when the band of Mexicans came up.

  There were twelve of them—dressed in a mixture of peon garb, khaki uniforms, and charro clothes. Their leader rode a gray horse. He was clad in an ornate sombrero, a khaki shirt crisscrossed with gleaming cartridge bandoliers, and charro pants that were skin-tight and emblazoned with braid. When he reined in, the gray horse reared. Behind him, eleven carbines were trained on Nora, Ramsey, and Concho. The leader dismounted.

  He walked toward them with something of the strut of a rooster, not a tall man, all wide-shouldered torso and short, bowed, rider’s legs. He stopped six feet away, put his hands on his lean hips, and his big spurs jingled as he planted his feet wide apart. He stared at them with narrowed black eyes in a square, very dark, flat-nosed face.

  For a moment or two, the silence of the morning was unbroken, except for the sound of the riders forming a circle around them. Then the man in front of them said, “Hola, Concho.”