No Finger on the Trigger (A Waxahachie Smith Western Book One)

by Edson, J. T.

  ‘Wasn’t there anything in the war—?’ the Texan commenced.

  ‘Nobody who is brought injured to Rancho Mariposa is searched, nor are his belongings!’ Ransome interrupted, her manner indignant. ‘Not even if he might be a—!’

  ‘A what, ma’am?’ the Texan queried. He concluded the possibility left unfinished was one which the beautiful girl did not care to contemplate and went on, ‘Just what do you reckon I might be, ma’am?’

  ‘You seemed to know us when I told you where you were and my father’s name,’ the girl said quickly, being disinclined to supply the requested information.

  ‘Well, not so much know as I reckon I’ve heard your daddy’s name. I wouldn’t say’s I’m from hereabouts, else you’d know me.’

  ‘I don’t know everybody in Bonham County.’

  ‘Likely not, ma’am.’

  ‘Does the name “Teodoro Fuentes” mean anything to you?’ Ransome asked, watching for the slightest suggestion that she had selected a name better known to the visitor.

  ‘It’s kind of familiar.’ the Texan admitted.

  ‘How about “Monocle Johnny Besgrove”. Maybe you’ve heard of him as “Sir John”, or even “that Limey”?’

  ‘Like that Fuentes jasper. It seems like I should know something about him, but I can’t call to mind what it might be.’

  ‘Brad Drexell, perhaps?’ Ransome suggested, naming the third of the ranchers whose property—along with that of her father—formed Bonham County and, although she sensed her only chance of learning anything the man might not want known would be before he was fully recovered from the effects of Juanita’s ministrations, feeling badly about what she was doing.

  ‘It’s the same’s with your daddy and the other two,’ the Texan answered. ‘I reckon I’ve heard of ‘em all, but I’ll be switched if I can tie a brand to where, when, or why I should have. Anyways, ma’am, you still haven’t told me what sort hombre you reckon I am.’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Ransome claimed evasively, her face flushed with something close to embarrassment. She realized that, should her suspicions be correct, it would not be tactful to mention them to one who showed every indication of making his living by his ability with a gun. On the other hand, in spite of the speed with which he could draw the Colt and the impression she had gained of his willingness to use it if necessary, her feminine instincts suggested there was something likeable about him. Allowing a smile to come, she went on, ‘I’ll go and have food brought up. Then, if you still feel up to it after you’ve eaten, I’ll fetch my father. Only, when we come to see you, I’ll shout and kick the door before I open it.’

  ‘Just a knock’ll do, ma’am,’ the Texan claimed, also smiling and coming to his feet. Crossing the room, he opened the door and continued, ‘Maybe between us we can figure out who I am.’

  T hope so,’ the girl replied and left. Walking along the passage towards the staircase to the ground floor, she thought, ‘And I hope you aren’t what you seem to be!’

  Left alone, the Texan found he was once more acting without the need for conscious thought. Instead of returning to the bed, he set about rectifying what could have been a fatal error if he had been up against a real life or death situation requiring the use of the revolver. Continuing to allow his instincts to guide him, he slipped the Colt from its holster and, extracting six cartridges from the loops on his belt, fed them into the chambers of the cylinder. While he was doing so, he reflected that the little he had discovered about himself so far was not entirely to his liking.

  Chapter Four – I’m Making It My Never-Mind

  Don Jose Fernando de Armijo y Cordoba was bored. Active by nature, he resented the riding accident sustained a week earlier which had left him confined to the house constructed in the Spanish colonial style by his grandfather. Instead of being able to go out on the range, his view was limited to across the plaza and what could be seen through the open gates in the high and sturdy adobe wall which surrounded the buildings. Therefore, he hoped to be able to relieve his boredom by going upstairs to introduce himself and, employing tact, satisfy his curiosity with regards to the injured man his daughter had brought home. From what he had just been told by Juanita, he considered this should be possible in the very near future.

  In his late fifties, close to six foot tall and slender, the owner of Rancho Mariposa was still a handsome man. Time had added an inch or two to his waist line and his once jet black hair was liberally streaked with grey. However, his physique still suggested the strength and energy of a younger man. He had lived all his life in Texas and was still regarded as a traitor by some people in Mexico because of the stand his family had taken during the struggle to gain independence from Presidente Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna’s tyrannical domination. x Nevertheless, he invariably wore the attire of a well to do haciendero from below the Rio Grande. Nor had his selection of such clothing and the retention of his property’s original name, albeit using a ‘Bench C’ for his brand instead of the more complicated variety favored south of the border, been held against him by his Anglo neighbors. They were aware that, in addition to having been a most effective scout for General Samuel Houston throughout the earlier conflict, his father had also served with distinction in the same capacity for the United States’ Army during the Mexican War of 1846. It was equally common knowledge that Cordoba himself was just as active in supporting the cause of the Confederate States, having been with Colonel John Salmon ‘Rip’ Ford and wounded shortly before victory was achieved at the Battle of Palmitto Hill. xi

  At that hour of the morning, were it not for being injured, Cordoba would have been out on the range working with his cowhands. Instead, bandaged and splinted, the broken leg was resting upon the cushions of the wheelchair in which he was seated. This offered him the means to move around the ground floor of the house and he could hobble up the wide stone staircase with the help of a crutch and the stout black walking cane trimmed with silver bands which rested against either side of it. For all that, inactivity always made him restless and he had been pleased by the estimation of the visitor’s condition he had received from Juanita. Despite its disturbing aspects, having been told the man should be fit enough to talk, he was offered an excuse to do something which he could handle in his present restrictive condition.

  Seeing seven riders appear approaching the main entrance, having been hidden by the wall until coming into view around the bend in the trail to Flamingo, the rancher changed his immediate plans. He was on the point of calling and asking Juanita to go upstairs to see how the injured man was feeling, but refrained. As they drew nearer, recognizing the man on the high stepping black thoroughbred at the centre of the group, he became aware of a strange sense of foreboding. There had been a time when visitors from Rancho Miraflores would not have aroused such a sensation. However, having been born and raised in Mexico, the men who had inherited it on the death of his old friend at the hands of cow thieves were not the kind with whom he wished to associate. In fact, because of unacceptable behavior the first time they had paid a call, he had made it known that the one who was coming was no longer welcome in his home.

  That Javier Fuentes should chose to ignore the prohibition came as no surprise to Cordoba. Nor was it unusual that he should be accompanied by three Hispanics and three Anglos, all well armed and of less than savory appearance. While the rancher did not know who any of them were, it did not require any great powers of deduction to guess what each would be. As was his own policy, Rancho Miraflores had never differentiated between the two ethnic groups when hiring hands. However, regardless of their range country attire, he doubted very much if this particular group’s experience *with cattle went any further than employing a knife and fork on cooked meat. Even before the trouble which was threatening to tear apart the whole of Bonham County, having fired almost all of the old crew, the Fuentes brothers had selected men who were hard-cases rather than ordinary cowhands for their replacements.

  In his early
twenties, although recently there had developed something of an unhealthy pallor in his cheeks and an unnatural glitter in his eyes, the younger of the Fuentes brothers was tall, slim and handsome. From head to foot, he was clad after the latest style worn by rich dandies in the cattle country of Mexico. His charro clothes and high crowned black sombrero were costly, with much silver and gold wire filigree to flaunt the family’s wealth ostentatiously. The two Colt Artillery Model Peacemaker revolvers in the fast draw holsters of an equally ornate gunbelt had fancy silver Tiffany grips. Silver conchas also decorated his horse’s bridle and saddle, its horn even larger than the norm. While less flamboyant, the plaited leather quirt dangling by a loop from his right wrist was thick, vicious looking and reportedly used at the slightest provocation upon any creature which invoked his easily aroused wrath.

  Crossing the plaza and coming to a halt a short distance in front of the house, the hired hands ranged themselves in a rough semi-circle with the dandified young man at the centre. A vicious jab from the sharp spikes of his spurs’ over-sized rowels caused the black thoroughbred to bound forward a short distance. It was brought to a stop by a savage jerk, via the reins, to a bit offering a leverage intended to exert control in a most painful fashion. Despite its elegant lines and evidence of excellent breeding, the animal was trembling and sweating. The look in its eyes indicated such harsh treatment was so normal as to be expected and feared.

  Watching the exhibition, Cordoba’s expression of distaste at such unnecessarily cruel behavior spoke far more eloquently than words. Despite his well deserved reputation for tolerance and hospitality, there was good cause for the dislike he felt and it went beyond the ill-treatment invariably inflicted by his visitor upon whatever mount was unfortunate enough to be in use. Since his arrival at Rancho Miraflores, Javier Fuentes had proved to be arrogant, spoiled, cruel and vindictive by nature and inclination. It was claimed that only his sibling, Teodoro and, to a lesser degree Doctor Otto Grantz—newly arrived medical practitioner of Flamingo, as length of residency was judged in the West—could exercise any degree of control over him when he flew into a rage.

  ‘Saludos, Don Cordoba,’ the young man greeted. He used Spanish, although aware that—in spite of retaining the long established family name for the property—the rancher preferred to have English spoken around Rancho Mariposa. ‘It’s a fine day.’

  ‘So it would seem,’ Cordoba replied in English, knowing his unwelcome visitor to be fully conversant in it. ‘But I’m sure you didn’t ride all this way just to discuss the weather, so to what do I owe the honor of your visit?’

  ‘We heard you’d met with an accident and I thought I’d come over to offer you and yours my protection,’ Fuentes answered, still in Spanish, but his handsome face twisted into surly lines.

  ‘I am grateful to you for the thought,’ Cordoba declared, despite his rich baritone voice expressing no such emotion. He had noticed the emphasis laid upon the words, ‘and yours’ and, knowing who was meant, did not care for it. ‘But, as I told you some time ago, yours was not an acquaintance I have any wish to continue and I have had no cause to revise my opinion.’

  ‘There are some who would say in these troubled times we of our race should forget past differences and stick together,’ the younger man answered, his voice growing harsher.

  ‘A wise decision,’ the rancher admitted, remembering how both the brothers frequently referred to their Hispanic birthright although—like himself—the man from whom they had inherited the property had invariably claimed to be a Texan first and a Chicano second. ‘And one which Sir John Besgrove was expressing only two days ago.’

  ‘A gringo—!’ Fuentes began, spitting out the second word as if it was a bad taste in his mouth.

  ‘A friend who is welcome into my home at any time,’ Cordoba corrected. ‘As he was at Rancho Miraflores in the days of your late uncle.’

  ‘Our welcome is only to friends we can trust,’ the young man countered. ‘And, as things stand around here, those who are not our friends must be regarded as our enemies.’

  ‘Is that the word of your brother?’

  ‘It is. These are very troubled times, senor, when a man must chose his side and be prepared to let this be seen. After all, who can tell when and where the rustlers who plague us will strike next? Or whether they will keep on just driving off cattle when there are richer prizes which would bring loot more easy to dispose of?’

  Listening to the all too obvious underlying current of menace and threat which had come into the Spanish side of the bi-lingual conversation, the rancher felt his sense of foreboding growing stronger. He was aware that the majority of his crew—every fighting man, to make matters worse —were too far away to let their appearance serve as a deterrent to whatever mischief might be contemplated by the young man. He also wished that he had something far more potent readily available than the single shot, .36 caliber Remington-Thomas Model of 1858 cane-gun leaning against the right side of his wheelchair.

  Having been equally aware of the possibility Fuentes had suggested with regards to the activities of the cow thieves, xii whose operations had cost the loss of human lives as well as cattle and caused much bad feeling throughout Bonham County, the rancher did not care to hear him mention it. The gang had confined their activities to stealing stock and killing anybody who was present so far, but it was only a short step before men so well organized and ruthless might decide to start seeking the more lucrative prospects offered by the ranch houses themselves.

  However, wild and vicious as Cordoba knew the younger of the Fuentes brothers to be, he could not believe an attempt to capitalize upon such a contingency was envisaged!

  Yet was it beyond the bounds of possibility?

  Having all the haughty pride of his well born Spanish blood, Javier had deeply resented being barred from visiting Rancho Mariposa and pressing, forcing would be a more accurate term, his attentions further upon the beautiful daughter of the house. His vindictive nature would have constantly insisted that the affront to his dignity and desires must be avenged. Therefore, either having been prompted by the hard-cases—who wanted to gather the loot such an endeavor would produce—or thinking up the plan on his own behalf, he had come to turn the situation locally to his advantage.

  Cordoba tried to take comfort from the thought that, his faults in other ways notwithstanding, Teodoro Fuentes would never countenance such an outrage!

  The conclusion was weakened by realizing the elder brother might be unaware of what the younger was contemplating!

  If an attack was launched and carried out with a cold blooded thoroughness and lack of concern for taking human lives, there would not be any survivors to point an accusing finger at those responsible!

  Even as the rancher was reaching the final summation, light footsteps sounded from behind him and a small hand rested gently on his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of sunlight off the barrel of what he realized was his daughter’s Winchester Model of 1876 carbine.

  Turning his insolent gaze past her father, Fuentes swept off the heavy sombrero and favored Ransome Cordoba with an exaggerated bow. While doing so, his eyes roamed over her slender figure and made no attempt to conceal the lascivious demeanor which had caused him to be told never to return to Rancho Mariposa. The scrutiny brought two bright spots of color to her cheeks and a look of cold disapproval from the rancher. However, he was amused by the former and paid no attention to the latter.

  ‘In view of what you said,’ Cordoba commented, the timbre of his otherwise polite tone having an edge like the finest Toledo steel. ‘Perhaps you and your companions would be better employed giving your protection to Rancho Miraflores.’

  ‘Uppy old son-of-a-bitch, ain’t he, Javier?’ inquired the tallest and bulkiest of the white men, his voice harsh and its dialect Kansan. Starting his horse moving forward, he went on, ‘I thought you told us he’d act all “hoss-pissable”, or some such thing, should we come on over and offer to hel
p him out.’

  ‘That was what I believed, Senor Coltrane,’ Fuentes answered, speaking English with a distinct accent for the first time. ‘Perhaps if I was to introduce you, the hospitality would be granted.’

  ‘It’s going to be, whether you introduce me or not,’ the Rancho Miraflores’ rider stated, his right hand hovering over the walnut grips of a low hanging Colt Peacemaker. Without looking back, he continued, ‘Ain’t it, boys?’

  ‘That it is, amigo,’ claimed the shortest, heaviest and most villainous looking of the Mexicans, in heavily accented English. A wolfish grin twisted at and, although it hardly seemed possible, rendered more evil his unwashed features as he continued, ‘I was raised to believe “mi casa, su casa” applied no matter who it is comes calling.’ xiii

  ‘Then what say’s we does something about it?’ the biggest white hard-case hinted.

  Listening to what was said and watching everything that was happening, Cordoba cared for none of it. Having heard the white man’s name and something of the very unsavory reputation which went with it, he felt a twinge of fear. Not for himself, but for Ransome. If Asa Coltrane and the others started to force their way into the house, she would try to stop them. Competent as she was with the carbine, she had never needed to use it against another human being and the rancher was aware of how vastly firing at a target—or even a stock killing black bear or cougar—differed from facing the prospect of shooting at a man, regardless of how good the reason for doing so. Nor would the fact that she was still little more than a child, and a girl at that, deter the hired hard-cases from effectively countering anything they considered to be a threat to their intentions and existence.

  ‘Anybody’s comes closer, or tries to pull iron’s going to right quick wish he’d never got took with the notion!’

  Even as the rancher was trying to think what action he might take to avert the perilous situation, the words in a commanding Texas’ drawl sounded from somewhere above the porch. They were accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a Winchester’s lever operated mechanism being put through its loading cycle. What was more, he realized, both could only have originated from- the injured man about whom he had so much curiosity.