Open Range Fury

by George Arthur

  The other man regarded him silently for a moment. Dried blood coated his right cheek, emphasizing his somewhat menacing demeanour. ‘Bannock,’ he eventually replied, his hard eyes no longer downcast or averted.

  Ugalde regarded him speculatively. ‘And what brings you to San Marcos, Señor Bannock?’

  It was Luis who, somewhat too eagerly, answered that. He unquestionably meant well, but as it turned out Bannock was to wish that he’d just kept quiet. ‘This man kept us alive until you returned, patron. He is a great pistolero. It was he who cut the head off the Comanche devil. We owe him a great debt.’

  The capitan nodded indulgently. ‘Very impressive, to be sure,’ he murmured, before allowing his tone to harden perceptibly. ‘But that is not what I asked. Nor did I ask you!’

  Bannock sighed wearily. Some instinct told him not to mention the wagon train, so he kept it simple. ‘I’d had a run-in some time before with the same war party, and came here to rest up. Turned out there might have been better places.’

  Ugalde’s eyes narrowed, as he finally broached the real issue behind his interrogation. ‘And while you were resting up, did you just happen to cut the throat of one of my sargentso?’

  Bannock regarded him impassively. ‘Now why would I want to do a fool thing like that?’

  ‘You tell me!’ the capitan barked. His harsh tone caused the two uncomprehending privados beside him to jump. Instinctively fingering their muskets, they suddenly regarded the Americano with a degree of hostility.

  It was then that Luis surprised both himself and Bannock, by coming up with an amazingly inventive response. ‘It was the other Americano that killed your sargento. Señor Bannock tried to stop him.’

  Now that did surprise the capitan. ‘What other Americano?’

  Luis shifted under the weight of his sleeping daughter, and gestured towards the still smouldering building. ‘The one who is still in there, patron.’

  Inside the church, Braxton had heard everything. ‘Son of a bitch!’ he muttered indignantly. He had no idea who this poxy sargento was that he was supposed to have killed, yet one thing was very apparent: ‘The bastards are stitching me up!’ But what to do about it?

  A rapid glance around the smoking, and still intensely hot interior, provided no solace whatsoever. Tucked in his belt was a single Paterson Colt, which on closer inspection appeared to have one charged chamber remaining. That and a skinning knife in a sheath at his waist was the sum total of his weaponry. Not a lot to take on the Mexican army with! Yet he had to do something, and do it fast.

  Then it came to him: the little bitch in the red dress. If he could get his hands on her, he would have something to barter with. Instinctively he reached for his knife. There was something about a razor-sharp blade at the throat that always seemed to concentrate people’s thoughts – and besides, the Colt might be needed if some fool tried to crowd him. His right hand was still painful, but he could grip with it, which was all that mattered. From outside came the sound of heavy boots approaching. It was time to make his move!

  Capitan Ugalde couldn’t imagine that anyone might have survived such an inferno, but he was infinitely thorough in everything that he did. Motioning for the two privados to accompany him, he advanced on the church. None of the three had their weapons levelled, because the most any of them could have expected to find was a charred corpse.

  The blackened apparition burst from the entrance, catching the soldados completely off guard. Before any of them could react, Braxton had barged past, desperately searching for a little figure in red. And for his dark intent, it couldn’t have panned out better. There before him, recumbent in her father’s lap, lay the picture of innocence that was Pepita.

  Slightly beyond them, wide-eyed and startled, Bannock reached for a revolver in his belt, but his opponent just had the edge by a very narrow margin. Even as the hammer came back over a fresh percussion cap, Pepita’s slim wrist was seized in an iron grip. As she awoke from a deep sleep, Luis attempted to grab her, but he couldn’t match Braxton’s animal strength. Stepping back, that other Americano swiftly altered his grip, so that his left arm was around her waist. Simultaneously his right hand, holding the knife, streaked up to her neck. With the vicious point suddenly probing her throat, he pivoted on his heels, executing a surprisingly graceful pirouette, so that no one would be in any doubt about whom he had hold of.

  The little girl emitted a piercing scream, which initially served his purpose, but her captor soon tired of the noise. His left arm tightened around her, squeezing the air out of small lungs.

  ‘Hush your mouth, missy, lest I cut you a new one,’ he snarled, before addressing the adults around him. ‘I won’t take shit from no one. I don’t know who I’m supposed to have kilt, and I don’t give a damn. All I want is a horse, water, and free passage out of here. Otherwise, this little bitch is lost to you. Savvy?’

  The two privados moved hesitantly towards him, until stilled by a sharp command from their officer. Luis, horrified by the abrupt turn of events, had scrambled to his feet, but could only look on helplessly as the unwavering blade threatened his beloved child. Bannock, by contrast, appeared unnaturally relaxed. Thrusting the still cocked Colt into his belt, he spread his arms wide in a gesture of contrition.

  ‘In all my life, I’ve never heard of such a thing,’ he remarked softly. ‘Holding a cutting tool on such an angel.’

  Silas Braxton favoured him with a mirthless smile. ‘Then you obviously don’t get out enough, Beaujolais Bannock. ’Cause I’ve killed everything that walks or crawls, at one time or another.’

  Ugalde apparently had no appetite for the death of a child. ‘Put the knife down, and I promise you will go free,’ he stated in his heavily accented English.

  ‘You an’ I both know that’s a black lie,’ Braxton spat back. ‘So go to hell!’

  Bannock recognized both the steely determination and total disregard for the life of an innocent. Then the knifepoint drew blood, and Pepita whimpered miserably.

  ‘OK, that’s enough,’ he angrily acknowledged. ‘Give him a horse, God damn it!’

  ‘And water,’ Braxton added gratuitously. He suddenly knew that he’d won, and he enjoyed the feeling.

  Ugalde seemed prepared to accept the unsatisfactory outcome, but it came with a proviso. ‘It cannot be either of our animals. The teniente and myself have to lead these men in another forced march tomorrow. Coronel Vallejo cannot cope without us, and he is not a man to cross.’

  ‘So he can take one of the Comanche ponies, yeah?’ Bannock persisted.

  The capitan nodded silently. He disliked both of these Americanos, but not enough to risk having a child’s blood on his hands. Luis, eager to do something, anything to save his daughter, rushed away to select an animal and a leather water container. He was back within moments.

  ‘The bitch stays with me ’til I’m out of range of any muskets and such,’ Braxton remarked.

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ Luis pleaded desperately.

  ‘You don’t,’ was the uncompromising reply. With that, he whispered in his diminutive captive’s ear. ‘You hear me, my pretty? Take the reins from your pa, and keep a tight hold of them, or it’ll go badly for you.’ Braxton was no fool. He had no intention of releasing his hold on the girl.

  Together, they shuffled awkwardly towards San Marcos’s main entrance. Teniente Felipe glanced at his superior, and then reluctantly ordered their conscripts to make way.

  Only once they were beyond the walls did Braxton remove the blade from Pepita’s throat. Heaving her on to the pony’s back, he then jumped up in front of her. His intention was obvious: he would use her as a human shield as they rode away.

  ‘So long, Beaujolais,’ he bellowed out, as he dug in his heels. That name again!

  ‘What if he keeps her?’ Luis wailed inconsolably, as the distance rapidly widened. ‘He might even sell her to the Comanches!’

  That grim thought had already occurred to Bannock. ‘Where’s
my Hawken?’ he demanded loudly. It came as no surprise when Tomas appeared, self-consciously holding the long gun.

  ‘What a surprise,’ Bannock remarked. ‘This is loaded, yeah?’ As Tomas nodded firmly, he rapidly made for the nearest intact wall, checking the percussion cap as he did so. Braxton might have been beyond musket and pistol range, but a Hawken was something else altogether.

  He deliberately mounted the steps at a steady pace. Breathlessness was the enemy of every sharpshooter. Cocking the rifle, he took careful aim at Braxton’s right shoulder. The fugitive was using his left hand to hold Pepita in place behind him, which meant that she was mostly covering that side of his torso. With a distance of two hundred yards or so, his shot was a certainty. Gently, he squeezed one trigger, and then the next.

  There was a pop, and then silence. Misfire!

  Luis was outside, already mounted and ready to retrieve his beloved daughter. ‘Señor, why do you wait?’

  Cursing, Bannock ignored him and rapidly considered his options. The cap had been sound. Ramming more powder and another ball down the barrel was pointless, and in any case risked blowing it up. That left one thing to try. Removing a nipple pick from his pocket, he probed the narrow channel leading down to the powder chamber at the rear of the barrel. And all the time Braxton was putting more distance between himself and San Marcos. It appeared that Luis had been correct. The Americano had no intention of releasing Pepita!

  Praying that he had cleared any blockage, Bannock pressed another copper cap into position, and again levelled the rifle. This time it would be a long shot, in both senses of the word. Both windage and elevation had to be taken into account. Breathing steadily, he again drew a bead on Braxton’s right shoulder. The margin for error was minute, but he didn’t allow himself to dwell on the possible consequences. He just willed his way to the target and fired.

  The welcome recoil jarred his shoulder, and Braxton jerked sharply before slumping forwards. His left hand must have suffered a spasm, because his prisoner suddenly tumbled clear. As a near frantic Luis kicked his pony into a gallop, Braxton continued on his way, making no attempt to turn around. Quite probably it took him every effort just to stay mounted.

  Bannock smiled his satisfaction. It appeared as though the black-hearted scoundrel would live to fight another day – but he would certainly not forget this one.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After an uneasy night spent in the midst of many smouldering buildings, the soldados were lined up in two ranks, and about to be led out of the settlement by Teniente Felipe. In spite of the gruelling march ahead, all of them were glad to be leaving. Following the lighting of the massive charnel fire just beyond the walls, there had been a nauseating stench of death hanging over the place that would be a long time going.

  Despite having certain reservations, Capitan Ugalde had come to the conclusion that there was little point in detaining the Americano known only as Bannock. There was no place to imprison him, and such a capable and dangerous man would just be a liability on a long journey. Perhaps more pertinently, there was also a complete lack of hard evidence against him. Yet he felt it only proper to offer some counsel.

  ‘Take my advice, señor. Leave San Marcos, and leave Mexico . . . while you can.’ As he stared intently at the man before him, the capitan’s expression was deadly serious. ‘There is nothing here for you, and I believe with all my heart that it cannot be long before our two countries are at war.’

  Bannock favoured him with a genuine smile. Thankfully this particular officer was at least reasonable. He knew for a fact that many weren’t. He was mightily relieved that the soldiers were leaving without him, and he had indeed had a bellyful of Mexico.

  ‘Don’t fret yourself, captain. I’ve had my fill of Sonora, and will definitely be moving on. Oh, and thank you.’ With that, he flipped him a casual salute, and then gratefully moved away to join Luis and his daughter. The sooner the infantry were gone, the better. He had seen the looks some of them had given him. It was obvious that not all of them believed him innocent of Montoya’s killing. Whether he’d been a popular non-com or not, didn’t come into it: the sargento had been one of them, and that was enough.

  ‘Why don’t you stay here with us for a while?’ Luis enquired with obvious sincerity. Pepita clung to him, as she had since returning with him to the settlement the previous day. Her face had been smeared with some of Braxton’s blood, but otherwise she was unharmed . . . physically at least. ‘After all that has happened,’ he continued. ‘You are most welcome. I . . . we owe you a debt that we can never repay!’

  For a fleeting moment, Bannock had a stark vision of the girl with the red bonnet, but then mercifully it cleared. ‘You don’t owe me anything. Either of you,’ he replied, adding cryptically, ‘I was making amends.’

  ‘But will you stay?’

  The Americano smiled, but shook his head. ‘I reckon not.’ Gesturing towards the now departing soldiers, he added, ‘The captain was right. There is nothing for me here. I sure ain’t no farmer.’

  Pepita stared up at him, her eyes like great pools. ‘But where will you go?’

  Bannock beamed down at her and winked, before returning his attention to her father. ‘Thought I’d drift on over to Texas. Lot of demand there for a man with my skills. And who knows, I might just bump into Silas Braxton again. We never quite seem to finish it.’

  There were so many questions that Luis could have asked him about that relationship, but he decided that it was probably better to hold his peace. Then one just kind of slipped out. ‘Why did he call you Beau . . . Beaujolais? What is it? What does it mean?’

  Bannock’s eyes momentarily grew cold, before he suddenly grunted and laughed. ‘It’s my given name, is what it is. My ma and pa must have sure had a strange sense of humour. Or mayhap they did it to toughen me up. Knowing that I’d have to fight plenty of folks over it. And I guess it worked, ’cause I’m still alive. But now, when anyone asks my name, I tell ’em “Bannock”. Just “Bannock”.’

  ‘Well then, that’s just how we’ll remember you,’ Luis commented, extending his right hand. ‘Or possibly as the “Magnificent One”. Wouldn’t you like that?’

  ‘Hah,’ snorted the other man, as he gladly accepted the warm handshake. ‘That does kind of have a nice sound to it!’