The Steel Angel

by Ray Hogan

  He reached the bluff and halted. The area beneath the escarpment was a ledge fifty feet or so in width before it fell away onto a long, running slope that ended in a brush-filled wash far below. Its length was perhaps twice its breadth, but with steeper grades leading up from the adjacent swales.

  There were a few rocks that could be used in fortifying the small plain; a rim of snakeweed and similar growth, while offering no protection from bullets, would screen the movements of the men. Cook would be forced to make his attack up the hillside, under the rifles of the teamsters—at a definite disadvantage—but the ragtag cavalrymen, by the sheer power of greater numbers, could overrun the rim.

  He would have to use the wagons as breastworks, risk damaging some of the cargo. Adam Rait didn’t like the thought, but it would be better to lose a few guns than the entire shipment.

  He wheeled as Waterhouse’s team, mouthing their bits and flecked with lather, pounded onto the level. Rait waved the driver to the far end of the ledge.

  “Line up broadside … then get the horses back along the foot of the bluff, out of range!” he shouted.

  The teamster following Waterhouse heard, swung into place without direction. The third wagon was loaded with ammunition; Rait had it taken to the somewhat lower area where the horses were being picketed. A stray bullet smashing into any one of the wooden cases in its bed could set off an explosion that would end their stand against Cook quickly.

  When the last of the vehicles had gained the level and were in position, he had nine lined up in a near-solid row across the rim of the ledge, creating an effective bulwark. The remaining three, because of their contents, were parked with the horses and Sancho’s chuck wagon.

  Adam, brushing sweat and dust from his eyes, rode to the latter position where Sancho and the wrangler were anchoring the last team to a wheel.

  “It’s up to you to keep the horses in hand,” he said, dismounting hastily. “Anything goes wrong, drive them down the far end so’s they can run loose.”

  Turning, he trotted to the center of the flat. Their major weak spot, he judged, was the summit of the cliff towering over them. Cook could send a squad in a wide sweep to approach from the rear. From the rim of the bluff soldiers could pour a murderous fire down upon the teamsters, more or less trapped below.

  He beckoned to Earl Handy and Henry Fox. “Get above. Watch for soldiers cutting in on us from behind. You see any signs of that … sing out.”

  The men wheeled, ran toward a slanting fault in the face of the formation that would enable them to climb to the crest.

  Gannon came up, sweat soaked and plastered with dust. “You squaring off for a regular war?”

  “That’s what we’re in,” Adam snapped.

  “Then I reckon you’d better be giving us something to do the fighting with.”

  Rait said, “Come on,” and, beckoning to several of the crew, crossed to the nearest wagon. Freeing one of the packing cases, he dragged it to the ground. “Give me an ax.”

  Taking the blade, he pried off the lid, exposed the rifles, suspended in layers by notched, wooden crosspieces. Picking up one, he handed it to Gannon. “Pass them around, and break open the ammunition. One thing we don’t have to worry about is something to fight with.”

  Leaving the distribution chore to Gannon, he walked between two of the wagons and halted at the hedge of weeds. Rocks had already been rolled up and put in place, and several of the teamsters were busy digging shallow pits.

  Cook and his cavalrymen had still put in no appearance. The Confederate likely was shaping up his formation, planning his strategy. Adam turned to look to the top of the butte. The heads of Fox and Handy were barely visible.

  He wished there was some way he could neutralize so weak a spot in their chain of defense, but there was none. He could only hope Zeb Cook would not detect it—at least not until he had made an assault or two from the front and the teamsters had lowered the odds a bit.

  He glanced to the southeast. The dust ball that still hung above the horizon was now much larger. He doubted that it was Joe Denver and the boy, Felipe. More than likely it was cattle on the move—or it could be a body of horsemen. He had a faint stir of hope thinking it might be a party of Juáristas patrolling the hills. He shook that off as hardly possible; he was sure they were not that near the border.

  He saw two riders topping out a hill a long half mile to the east. Squinting, he studied the figures, something about them being familiar. With a start he recognized Angela and Hernando Bernal. Not quite believing it, he swung his eyes to Sancho and the teams; he had assumed the girl and the Mexican officer would be there, but in the rush to prepare he had not given the matter any thought.

  Slowly, he turned back. Why had they pulled out on their own? Why hadn’t they stayed with the train? For Bernal to abandon his prize, even though the eventual, outcome might be doubtful, made no sense … unless …

  Rait drew himself up sharply, his gaze again on the yellowish cloud. Unless that dust indicated the arrival of Hernando Bernal’s Mexican brigade.

  That the officer would dare bring his men onto foreign soil, tempt the wrath of the United States, was unbelievable—but he could think of no other answer. And Bernal and those with whom he was allied were desperate, playing for high stakes. The general would take the risk if the results warranted it.

  The presence of the Mexican troops was no accident. Thinking back, Adam could see why Bernal had insisted the train turn south—and why Hernando had tried to stop him earlier that evening when he rode out to investigate the dust he thought was being raised by Joe Denver. He figured Rait’s curiosity was aroused for an entirely different reason.

  It was all a prearranged plan. That accounted for Bernal’s supreme confidence in his ability to get the wagon train to Mexico City without difficulty. More than likely the troops had been standing by after having been alerted by Martinez who had continued on across the border after his unsuccessful attempt on Emiliano Escobar’s life.

  But General Hernando Bernal had not reckoned with the dogged persistence of half-mad Zebulon Cook and his ragged volunteers. He was now faced with but one course of action: hurriedly bring up the Mexican brigade, that was probably not scheduled to enter the picture for another day or so, and protect his prize. He and Angela were moving to join the command at that very moment.

  Adam Rait swore grimly. It would develop into a three-way battle—with the teamsters caught in the middle; before it was over, the quiet hills and steep bluffs would witness one hell of a scrap.

  Idly he watched the two riders drop from sight behind a hill, and his thoughts settled on Angela. He remembered the way she had looked at him when he rode off to lead the wagons in their hurried flight to the butte. He would not soon forget—and he found himself wishing he had taken time to pause, urge her to join them. Perhaps that would have been the exact moment, the time of truth when she would have made her decision to mesh her life with his.

  But he had missed the opportunity, and she had gone her way. It was too late now. That their paths might one day cross again seemed unlikely. Rait stirred impatiently, endeavored to rid himself of the sense of loss that realization engendered—but without success.

  Angela could have been his—he knew that now—but he had been pigheaded and insisted that his way was right. What difference did it really make to him who got the shipment of arms—Maximilian or Juárez? Mexico was another land, another world; he could easily spend the rest of his life without setting foot on Mexican soil again.

  Yet, deep within him, he knew that was wrong—that his actions were right, and no amount of self-persuasion would change anything. Conviction, he had learned long ago, was a cruel and costly master, and a man who would live at peace with himself had no choice except to stand firm.

  He could solve it all simply by mounting his horse, advising the teamsters to do likewise, and riding off, thus
leaving it for pseudo-Colonel Zebulon Cook and Brigade General Hernando Bernal to brawl for the bounty.

  But to Adam Rait such a thought was as remote as the yonder edge of infinity.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Again, Adam looked to the ridge. Cook was taking his time; if he didn’t hurry it would soon be dark. He remembered then the two scouts—they had not returned—which could mean that Cook was intentionally delaying, planning to attack under cover of night. And he could be holding off until morning …

  It didn’t matter; when it came—it came. The teamsters were as ready as they’d ever be, some of them already crouched behind the wagons, others hunkering in the pits they had dug, or back of the rocks they had piled into small mounds. Adam pulled away from the rim, halted next to the packing case he had removed from one of the wagons. Reaching down, he selected one of the rifles, and then helped himself to a double handful of brass cartridges that he stuffed into his pockets.

  He tried the weapon’s action, found it smooth. The rifle bore the name of a German manufacturer, looked much like an old Sharps he had once owned, except that it was designed to take the new style ammunition. With such a weapon the teamsters would give a good accounting of themselves—all twenty-one of them, including himself. He grinned bleakly. Twenty-one against fifty, possibly sixty … Who the hell was he trying to fool?

  But there was one hope he had so far refused to dwell upon: the escort Escobar had promised should be on its way … could even be nearby. If so—

  A sudden spatter of gunshots broke out in the area beyond the ridge. Adam walked quickly to the edge of the flat. The dust roll he had observed had shifted to the north and was much larger. The riders causing it, he realized, would be some distance on ahead—and that would place them behind the ridge. Bernal’s men must have struck.

  Another rattle of gunfire, this time prolonged and heavy, echoed flatly across the fading day. Ed Vernon got to his feet, scratched at his whisker-covered jaw, and looked inquiringly at Rait. “Cap’n … what the hell’s going on?”

  “That’s your friend Bernal and his soldiers. They’ve jumped Cook.”

  “Bernal? Where’d he get soldiers?”

  More of the teamsters pulled back from their positions, now stood in silence listening to the distant shooting.

  “Had them waiting all the time,” Adam replied. “Why do you think he wanted you to head due south for the border?”

  Rube Waterhouse leaned his rifle against the wheel of a wagon. “Sure, that’s what he told us. Said he’d have his men take over once we crossed … but he didn’t say nothing about no soldiers.” The man paused, frowned. “We across the border?”

  “No, still a few miles away.”

  “Then what’s he bringing in soldiers—?”

  “Don’t mean nothing, him doing that,” Bill Gannon broke in. “I figure he’s doing it as a favor … sort of protecting us, keeping that Cook off our backs.”

  Darby Sims said: “Sounds right to me. He just don’t want nothing happening to our cargo. Only thing I don’t savvy is how come them soldiers of his was so handy?”

  Adam Rait only listened. The men were at last realizing the possibility that they might have been duped by the Mexican officer, but were far from convinced. He let it ride. There was nothing that could be done about it now, anyway.

  The firing beyond the hogback grew in intensity. Smoke, infiltrated by dust, began to hang in a low, bellying cloud above the lengthy formation.

  “Sure is a hell of a scrap going on over there,” Malachi Lee said. “I’m wondering who’s winning?”

  “Maybe it don’t make no difference,” Waterhouse answered. “I’m getting a hunch that Rait’s right. Ain’t neither one of them fixing to do us no good.”

  Gannon swore loudly. “And I’m telling you, you’re wrong! The Mex ain’t about to pull no double cross on us. You’ll see.”

  “Liable to be too late … when the time comes.”

  “No it won’t! I’m telling you so! And I’ll prove it!”

  Waterhouse stared at Gannon. “Now, how you aiming to do that? You’re the talkingest bastard—”

  “Just keep your shirt on, I’ll prove it.”

  The shooting began to fade, fell off to a few scattered reports. The huge, ugly cloud was drifting away. Adam glanced to the west. The sun was down, leaving only a flare of reddish gold to mark its passage. There was still time for the victor—whoever it was—to attack the butte.

  “Back in your places,” he ordered. “Our turn’s coming up.”

  The crew resumed their positions, and a heavy silence, filled with tension, fell over the ledge. But there was no movement on the ridge as darkness, once begun, closed in swiftly. A quarter hour dragged by … a half …

  Rait looked to the men on the summit of the butte. “See anything over there?”

  Fox called back: “Nothing ’cept dust and smoke!”

  Ed Vernon again arose. “Must’ve changed their minds, Cap’n.”

  Bill Gannon laughed. “It’s like I was telling you. The general was doing us a favor. He’s drove off that crazy bunch of Confederates. Like as not, them soldiers of his are headed back for Mexico.”

  Adam shrugged. He could be wrong since his conclusions had all come from hunches, and the way things had shaped up, but on the other hand Bernal could be playing it cagey; he, too, might be considering a night attack, or a delay until the morning.

  “Hope you’re right, Bill … about all of it,” Rait said. “But I’m taking no chances.” He turned to Sancho. “Fix some grub, viejo. Want to get this eating out of the way.”

  The cook glanced around. “There is no wood for the fire. It will be difficult.”

  “Use that box the rifles were in. Dump the rest of those cartridges in a couple of buckets. You’ll scrape up enough.”

  The old man moved off, muttering to himself, and Rait swung back to the teamsters. “Have to keep a sharp watch tonight. Figure on three outposts … one in front, one at each end of the ledge, two on the rim above us. Four-hour shifts.”

  “Starting now?” Darby Sims asked.

  “It can wait until full dark … as long as we all keep an eye on that ridge.”

  “You picking the sentries?” Gannon wanted to know.

  Adam nodded. “I’ll have a list ready by the time we’re through eating.”

  He walked to the declivity in the cliff, clawed his way to the top. Handy and Henry Fox greeted him with frowns.

  “All that shooting over there … what do you figure was going on?” Fox asked.

  Rait made his explanation, making clear that it was all assumption on his part and then said: “What I wanted to say was to keep a close watch on the ridge. They could be planning to come at us when it’s good and dark.”

  Earl Handy nodded but it was evident he was not giving it much thought. “What I’m wondering,” he said, “is how come that Bernal had soldiers clean up here in the first place.”

  “The boys are all wondering about that,” Adam said, turning for the declivity. “You can hash it over with them when you come down to eat. I’ll send up your relief pretty quick.”

  “Now, hold on a minute,” Fox said hurriedly. “You meaning Bernal had them soldiers here, just a-laying for us?”

  “It looks that way to me. Expect we’ll find out for sure, though, tonight or maybe in the morning.”

  Handy slammed his hat to the ground angrily. “Why, that goddamned …!”

  “Sure sounds like we’ve been suckered,” Henry Fox murmured. “Should’ve listened to you, but we was plumb blinded by that extra gold. Anything we can do?”

  “Nothing but fight.”

  “Which bunch you reckon it’ll be … Cook’s or the Mexicans?”

  “Bernal is my guess,” Adam said, and moved on to the steep path.

  Halfway down
, he heard the thump of Sancho’s pounding on the side of his wagon, summoning the men to their meal. He reached the level, accepted a plate of hurriedly prepared, thin stew and warmed-over biscuits, and crossed to one of the wagons where he found a seat on the tongue.

  He remembered then the sentry list he had promised and, taking a stub of pencil and a scrap of paper from his pocket, wrote out the names of the men in duty order. It didn’t make any difference who stood guard, or when, just so watch was maintained. The roster was completed by the time he had downed his meal, and he turned it over to Ed Vernon.

  “I leave it up to you to pass the word. I’ll be checking the posts all night.”

  Vernon signified his understanding, and, list in hand, he began moving among the teamsters, informing them of their shifts.

  “Send somebody up to spell off Fox and Handy!” he called after him. “Time they ate.”

  The night began to brighten as the stars and moon gathered strength. He began to doubt that an attack would be attempted. The engagement beyond the ridge would have taken its toll of men and equipment; Bernal—or Cook—would probably wait until morning, but he would permit no relaxing of the watch.

  Shortly before midnight, when he paused at the fire for a cup of Sancho’s caustic belly-warmer, he found Vernon, Rube Waterhouse, and Henry Fox there ahead of him.

  Waterhouse was sloshing his coffee about in the cup absently. “You figure we got a chance coming out of this, Adam?”

  “A slim one,” Rait answered.

  “Just what we was saying. But if we do—?”

  “Somebody’s coming!”

  The warning came from Red Lester, posted at the south end of the ledge. Adam leaped to his feet, snatching up his rifle.

  “Watch close!” he shouted. “They could be moving up!”

  “Couple of wagons …” Lester’s tone was uncertain. “Looks like … by hell, it’s Joe Denver and the Mex boy!”