by Ray Hogan
The crowd broke up as the men started for their wagons. Rait came about, found Hernando Bernal, still mounted, standing behind him. The officer nodded.
“I am sorry, my friend. The fortunes of war, eh?”
Rait pinned the man with a cold stare. “Like the rattlesnake, you move quickly when my face is turned from you. A pity God did not give you rattles also that others might be warned.”
The officer’s smile remained fixed. He stirred slightly. “I am a soldier doing his duty.”
“No … a murderer and a liar leading men to their deaths,” Adam countered, and then in English said: “Now get the hell away from me … and stay away! The same goes for your doxy,” he finished, pointing at Angela.
* * * * *
She sat in the warm darkness of the supply wagon and studied Adam Rait. He stood near the fire, down now to embers, staring off into the night. Except for the sentries stationed a distance from the camp, all of the other men were asleep.
She moved restlessly. Earlier she had been furious with him, at the harsh manner in which he had spoken to her, and at herself for her own failure to make him understand her position, her problems. But to Adam Rait everything was either black or white, and subtleties were as foreign to him as was Maximilian to Mexico.
She recalled how he had faced Gannon and the teamsters, standing there before them defiantly, while he fought with his will as he attempted to persuade them they were wrong, that they should not trust Bernal but stand by their promise to the Juáristas.
He was what the Mexican people called macho—a real man. Subconsciously, she endeavored to compare him with the elegant dandies that hung around Maximilian’s court: Rait stood tall, without actually being so, high above them, and the hard, clean lines of his features made the foppish gentlemen she once had thought gallant appear effeminate.
The way he carried himself, that limp that gave him a dashing, reckless air. How had he sustained it? Could it have been a duel over a woman? Angela smiled in the darkness. She was thinking like a schoolgirl, visualizing her idol, but there was a rough masculinity to him, a strength that differed from that associated with the strong. It set him apart and she was finding it impossible to dismiss him from her mind.
She wondered if he had ever married. He had not spoken of a wife—even of women as a passing fancy. That could mean nothing. She would like being his wife, or just his woman, she told herself, shamelessly frank in the safety of her own private thoughts.
But that was a hope she might as well forget. The way Adam Rait felt about her—still, there were some things he should know. That she had been an ignorant accomplice of Hernando Bernal’s scheme that day, for one, and she should apologize for getting angry when he thought he was making her see the truth about herself.
Marshaling her courage, she climbed from the wagon, crossed to where he stood. He heard her coming, looked around, his face inscrutable.
“About today,” she began hesitantly, “I … I know what you must think … about what Bernal did … but you’re wrong. I had no part in it. I was with you because, well … because I wanted to be.”
He turned his head again to stare off into the night. “Makes no difference. You’re still in it.”
Penetrating the defense he had thrown around himself was to Angela like hammering on a wall of stone. “Earlier, when you were giving me a look at myself … I was trying to make you understand something … things aren’t always exactly the way they seem.”
He did not move. Far back, in the direction of the river, a coyote yapped a shrill challenge.
“All the things you said were true,” she continued almost desperately. “Or partly so. And a lot of it doesn’t have much meaning to me … anymore.”
“It’s a little hard to believe that.”
“You don’t think it’s possible I could change?”
“I’d as soon expect hell to freeze,” he said bluntly. “You trying to tell me you’re no longer interested in preserving the great Maximilian and the gay life of Mexico City?”
She shrugged off the heavy sarcasm, remained silent.
“Figured that,” he said. “And it’s gone your way. Bernal worked a slicker on me and on the men. He got what you both wanted and there’s damned little I can do to stop you now … but there is one thing I’m curious about.”
Angela’s head came up, hopefully. “Yes?”
“If he’d failed to swing the teamsters to his proposition, what would’ve happened next? Would you have come crawling into my blankets tonight, ready to try your hand at persuading me?”
Angela recoiled. The urge to slap him raced through her, and then she realized he had every reason to voice the question. Anger rushed to her defense, tipped her tongue with venom.
“Possibly … Had I … would you have agreed?”
Adam Rait stiffened perceptibly. It was as though he had expected that very answer, yet did not want to hear it.
“No,” he said finally—and flatly.
“Are you sure? Would I be so hard to take?”
“Not that … far from it. But when and if you come into my arms, it has to be because you want to be there, not as a part of some goddamned business deal.”
Rigidly he wheeled and strode off into the starlit night.
Words rushed to Angela’s lips. She wanted to cry out, stop him, try to make him understand. But it was too late—everything was too late. Forget it. Forget him.
Turning slowly, she walked to the wagon and climbed into her bed.
Chapter Twenty-One
The days following moved by in routine fashion. Sunrise—the intervening hours of sweat, rolling hills, sandy flats, rumbling wagons and clanking chains, shouting teamsters, dust, inescapable heat—then sunset. And riding above it all like a gray cloud were the intangible threats: Zebulon Cook, savage Comanches, and, for Adam, the growing proximity of Hernando Bernal’s Mexican brigades.
Throughout the devastating monotony Rait maintained his lonely isolation at the head of the column, faithful to his duties, and while civil in his relations with the teamsters, his mingling was limited, his manner definitely remote. As to Angela de Acera and Bernal, he was stonily indifferent, treating them as though they were nonexistent.
Eventually the plains country through which they were passing began to play out, and they entered a hilly land, carved in haphazard abandon by frowning red bluffs and wide, sand-bottom washes. The wheels of the wagons bit deep into the loose surface, and progress slowed considerably. Adam counted it fortunate when they could cover fifteen miles in a twelve-hour day.
He began now to watch the southeast. Joe Denver and Felipe should be putting in an appearance, such depending of course on how far off the trail they had led Zebulon Cook and his men—and if they were still alive.
That possibility had continually disturbed Rait, despite his confidence in the husky teamster’s ability to take care of himself, and he tried to keep it from his mind by assuring himself that Denver would return. Several times that particular day he rode to the crest of some convenient hill and spent minutes probing the horizon. On each occasion he saw nothing but empty, sprawling reaches of broken country.
Such activity eventually drew the narrow-eyed attention of Hernando Bernal, and late that afternoon he saw the officer pull off a short distance and stare into the same direction as though he, too, were expecting someone; Adam put it down to curiosity and suspicion on the part of the Mexican.
He had only a tentative plan for when Joe Denver returned. It would be necessary to spot him far in advance, and then ride out unnoticed to meet him before he could reach the wagons.
He would exchange the horse he rode for the wagon Denver would be driving, thus affording the teamster faster transportation. Speed in summoning the Juáristas would be all-important by that time. Seeing him return with Denver’s wagon would arouse immediate doubts on
the part of Bill Gannon and the other teamsters, but by then it would be too late to do anything about it.
Hernando Bernal was something else. If he attempted to follow Joe, Adam was determined to stop him—with a gun, if necessary. But that was a side issue; the important thing was to catch Denver well before the crew knew of his coming—and that would require constant vigilance.
Around 4:00 p.m. of the next day he saw a faded, yellow ball take shape in the distant sky. It was no more than a discoloration but he knew it was dust, and it lay in the right direction. Once noted, Adam look pains to ignore it, fearful of drawing anyone’s attention, but he began to look ahead to when he could slip away and determine if it was Joe Denver.
The bluffs and broad washes, interlaced with long weedy slopes, had become more prevalent. They were crossing country that could almost be termed brakes, and he realized, also, that they were not too distant from the border.
It was fortunate Denver was finally arriving—if Denver it were. Once the train fell into custody of Bernal’s cavalrymen, the chances of wresting it back and conveying the cargo on to Juárez City would be very slim.
An hour later, on the firm surface of a long slope, he halted, raised his arm. “Pull in! Pull in!” he shouted. “Night camp!”
Immediately Bill Gannon, handing the reins to his relief driver, leaped from his seat and came running forward.
“What the hell’s the matter?” the teamster yelled. “We got a couple hours left yet.”
“We camp here,” Adam answered firmly, and then added: “Maybe you’d like to take a vote?”
Gannon swore as the barb dug in, wagged his head. “Ought to make as far as we can.”
“Not sure what’s ahead,” Rait said.
“Won’t hurt none to keep going.”
“Maybe not … but we’re stopping here. Now, either get back and bring up that wagon, or I’ll do it for you.”
Gannon hung motionlessly for several moments of indecision, and then whirled, retraced his steps. Pulling himself up and onto the seat, he snatched the leathers from his partner, popped his long whip, and sent the freighter rumbling forward.
Adam stayed in the saddle, watched the wagons shape up, halt, and the teamsters turn to their chores. Sancho, finding a nearly level spot, brought his rig to a standstill, chocked the wheels with small rocks, and began to break out his equipment.
Only then did Adam Rait come about and drift slowly for the lower end of the slope. Ostensibly he was following his usual custom of having a last look at the country ahead over which the train would be crossing that next day. It was not uncommon and no one paid any attention to him—no one except Hernando Bernal.
He glanced at the officer and the girl when he passed the supply wagon that she still used as her personal quarters. He saw her standing there, one hand resting on the tailgate, regarding him in that cool way that always stirred him. He made no effort to speak, simply continued on. Bernal immediately stepped away from the vehicle, following him with his small sharp eyes.
Moments later Rait entered a steep-walled arroyo and, shielded from view of the camp, he cut left and began to move toward the now definite dust roll floating above the low hills. Keeping to the bed of the wash, winding in and out of clumps of feathery flowered Apache plume, scarlet-tipped ocotillo, and other wild growth, he broke finally onto a long slide that terminated a quarter mile away in a second, larger arroyo.
He could not see the exact source of the dust. It origination seemed beyond a fairly high rise some distance on ahead. He began to wonder—the cloud appeared far too large for one stirred up by two wagons. But the country was powder dry, and four horses drawing two vehicles at considerable speed could conceivably churn up a substantial haze.
Rait heard the soft thud of an approaching rider at that moment, realized he had been trailed. He pulled off immediately, drew the bay in behind a clump of head-high doveweed. Hernando Bernal appeared. The officer was frowning, his gaze on the loose sand as he searched for prints left by Adam’s mount.
“Looking for me, General?”
At Rait’s question, the officer jerked to a halt. His head came up and he stared at Adam. “I look for you,” he said quietly in English.
“You found me. Now what?”
Bernal leaned forward. “Your heart is not with your words, gringo. You still oppose me and have plans of a personal nature.”
“Reckon you’re sort of a mind reader,” Adam drawled. “What about it?”
Hernando shrugged, lazily deceptive. “A solution is simple. You will die … here.”
Suddenly, with the final word, he drove roweled spurs into his horse, sent the animal plunging ahead. A knife glittered in his hand.
Adam hauled back on the bay, bringing him to his hind legs. Bernal thundered by at close quarters. Rait struck out, using his balled fist as a club. The blow was only a glancing one but it caught the officer on the neck and rocked him off balance. His horse veered sharply to avoid the brush, and Hernando went sideways out of the saddle.
Rait, boiling with suppressed anger finally unleashed, was off the bay and on Bernal before the man could recover. Wrenching the knife free, he hurled it into the brush, dragged the officer to his feet. Swinging hard, he drove a right to Bernal’s jaw.
Hernando groaned, sank back. Heaving for breath, Adam towered over him. “Get up, goddamn you! I’m not through yet!”
Bernal lunged, caught Rait around the ankles, pulled him down. Locked together, they thrashed about, half in, half out of the brush. Adam kicked free, sprang to his feet. Bernal came up with him.
He closed fast, throwing himself at Rait. Adam jumped aside, tripped, and again both were on the ground, hammering at one another’s body. This was far different from the fight he had engaged in with Gannon. Bill, all muscle and strength, could take no shock to the jaw; however Hernando was somehow weathering everything Rait could throw.
Adam managed to get to his knees. Bernal’s dark, sweaty face was rising up to him. Locking his hands together, Rait clubbed the man on the nose, heard bone crack, saw the officer fall away.
Rising, sucking deep for wind, Adam seized the officer’s arm, hauled him half upright. Throwing his weight into a spin, he swung Bernal around, crashed him into the brush. The officer groaned and tried to recover his balance. Adam stepped in close, smashed a hard blow to the belly, another to the head. Drawing back, he allowed Bernal to fall, instantly dropped onto him and encircled the man’s throat with his fingers.
“Anybody dies,” he gasped, “it won’t be me.”
Motion far out on a plain beyond the hills caught his attention in that same moment; it was to the east. He frowned, glanced to the dust in the south. It looked like another party—Zeb Cook!
He recognized the body of men on second glance. There were fifty or more horsemen, strung out in a wide skirmish line. Cook was in the advance. Behind him rode two officers, likely Griswold and perhaps Slade, the sergeant.
A pace behind them came the flag bearer, supporting the banner of the Confederacy. Cook was moving up on the camp. Whether by accident or design, it was not possible to know. In either event, he would see the wagons in a short time.
Rait leaped to his feet, whirled to the bay, and vaulted onto the saddle. Ignoring Bernal, now sitting up, rubbing his throat, he spun and cut back up the arroyo at full gallop, recklessly swerving through the brush and shoulders of rock.
He came into camp at a rush. The sound of his approach had brought the teamsters to an alert and they stood grouped near the wagons, weapons drawn.
“Hitch up!” Adam shouted, bringing the bay to a sliding halt. “Cook and his bunch are closing in. Move, God dammit! Don’t stand there gawking!”
Immediately the crew broke and ran to where the horses were picketed. Sancho began to throw his gear into the chuck wagon, yelling for someone to bring up his team. Rait, leaving the
saddle, rushed to help.
From the corner of his eye Adam saw Angela hurriedly throwing gear onto her mount. They would have to forget the supply wagon; there was no time to waste on it.
“Where the hell we going?” Gannon shouted from across the clearing.
“High bluff … about two miles from here. Can’t outrun Cook, so we’d best make a stand.”
Gannon nodded, continued to work with his relief man at getting the team in harness. Shortly several of the freighters were ready to move.
Adam motioned to them. “Pull out! Don’t waste time lining up!”
He jerked the last buckle tight, yelled at Sancho to whip up, and swung to the bay. The wagons were rolling by, wheels making sharp cutting sounds on the gravelly surface. Over to the left the wrangler was hazing the extra horses into a trot.
Rait went up into the saddle, glanced to where he had last seen Angela; surprise touched him. Bernal, looking dusty and rumpled, had returned. He was in earnest conversation with the girl.
Jamming spurs to his horse, Adam raced to get ahead of the freighters. Angela and Hernando Bernal would have to take care of themselves.
Chapter Twenty-two
The wagons were strung out in a broken line up the slope leading to the bluff. The ground was firm, if rough, and the heavily loaded vehicles bounced and lurched from side to side as the teamsters, upright, legs braced, cracked their long whips and shouted at the straining horses.
Adam forged ahead of the lead freighter. It was driven by Rube Waterhouse. The man had lost his hat and his uncut hair was streaming in the breeze; his wagon was open, and Rait could hear a steady flow of affectionate cursing above the grumbling of his wagon.
Adam looked to the ridge where Zeb Cook would make his initial appearance. Two riders were silhouetted against the pearl-like sky—advance scouts. If the commander of the counterfeit Confederates had been unaware of the wagon train’s presence, he would know it now. Even as Rait watched, the scouts dropped back, disappeared below the ragged hogback.
