Ambush at Shadow Valley (23 page)

As the men loaded the severed remains of Dave Arken into two blankets and hauled them around the hillside to a softer bed of ground, Clarimonde sidled her horse over to Memphis Beck and whispered between the two of them, ‘‘He did it. I know he did.''

‘‘Oh? What makes you say that?'' Beck stared ahead, but listened.

Glancing back first and seeing Soto looking away across the rugged hills, she said, ‘‘He has talked about commanding demons from his cult following him ever since he killed Nate Ransdale, the fellow who helped him escape. I thought it was just his raving madness at first, but after seeing what happened to your man, I know it's true. His demons are tracking us. Suelo Soto is pure evil, no less so than the devil himself. You must get rid of him.''

Still staring ahead, Beck said coolly, ‘‘I've got one little problem with getting rid of him.'' As he continued he turned a questioning gaze her way. ‘‘Once he's gone, who's going to handle explosives for us?''

She understood what he was asking. Having already given the matter much thought, she swallowed a dry knot in her throat and said, ‘‘I will.''

Beck allowed himself a hint of a smile. ‘‘Have you studied everything? Do you know what he knows? Can you do what he does?''

Without mentioning that she'd only watched Soto go through the process twice, she said, ‘‘I know how to make the nitroglycerin, and I can combine it with the clay.''

‘‘Are you certain?'' Beck asked.

‘‘I am certain,'' said Clarimonde. ‘‘I am the one who mixed the batch we tested. I mixed the batch we're getting ready to use.''

‘‘Good enough,'' said Beck. ‘‘I'll get you a pencil and some paper. You can write it all down for me. I'll look it over.''

‘‘I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Beck,'' Clarimonde said coldly. ‘‘I didn't realize that you thought me a fool. With the process on paper, you would have no further need of me.'' She started to jerk the big paint horse away from his side.

‘‘Whoa, ma'am,'' said Beck, grabbing the horse's bridle and pulling it back beside him. ‘‘I was only testing you. I apologize.''

Clarimonde eased down and took a deep breath. Keeping the big paint horse beside him, she asked, ‘‘Well, did I pass your test?''

‘‘Yep,'' said Beck, still looking straight ahead. ‘‘Help me get us through this big job. I realize that getting Soto out of prison was a mistake, no matter how badly I need an explosives man. Once this is over, he's gone. If you can do the job, it's yours.''

Pushing on through the night, the ranger and Hector arrived at the Pierman spread so close behind Beck and his men that they poured themselves a cup of coffee that had been left on the cooling potbellied stove. ‘‘I say an hour at the most,'' Sam estimated, after picking up a thin, black cigar from an ashtray, and checking the burned tip for warmth and the rear for moisture.

Hector sipped his coffee with a tired smile of satisfaction. ‘‘Then why are we stopping? We haven't a minute to lose.''

‘‘We'll lose more than a
minute
if we don't feed and rest our horses,'' Sam pointed out.

‘‘Yes, you are right,'' said Hector, rubbing his face as he began to feel the weight of the long hours in the saddle, and the effect it had started having on his judgment. ‘‘I will go attend the horses.''

‘‘No, I'll attend the horses,'' Sam replied. Noting the haggard look on Hector's face, he said, ‘‘It won't hurt for you to slow down long enough to get a meal in your belly and close your eyes for a while.''

"
Sí
, perhaps I will, just for a minute,'' said Hector, slumping down onto a large, cushioned chair.

While the young
guardia
sat with his eyes closed, the ranger stepped over, took the coffee mug from his hand and set it on a nearby table. Then, he walked outside and led their horses to a water trough where he let the animals drink their fill as he searched and found grain for them inside a feed bin beside the barn.

Seeing the big, bareback roan milling shyly at the side of the hacienda, Sam walked over slowly with a handful of grain and held it out. ‘‘Come on, fellow, don't be bashful,'' he coaxed. ‘‘I can tell you're hungry.''

The horse nosed forward. Sensing no danger, he nibbled hungrily at the grain as Sam looked him over thoroughly, trying to picture the animal's circumstances. ‘‘Why'd they leave you behind, fellow?'' he asked. ‘‘Good horses being as scarce as they are out here.'' He looked out along the trail—the direction the horse had ridden in from—and up along the hill line. They had lost a man up there, he deduced. Somewhere beyond the hills Beck and his gang were riding toward a robbery of some sort. They had lost a man and turned his horse loose.
Why else was this animal not in a corral,
he asked himself. ‘‘No reason . . . ,'' he replied under his breath, rubbing the roan's neck as it munched the grain from his hand.

Suddenly the roan reared its head and nickered low, looking past the ranger's shoulder toward the hacienda. Sam spun around, his Colt coming up from its holster. But he saw nothing. Then, as he scanned both sides of the wide adobe house, through the open front door he caught sight of two ghostly white figures moving across the room and out of sight, toward the chair where Hector sat sleeping.

Running fast, the ranger sprang up onto the porch and through the open front door. With no regard for his own safety, he raced into the hacienda, his Colt up and cocked, in time to see two figures look toward him from where they stood over Hector, machetes raised high in the air. They stood hatless, their shaved heads covered with strangely colorful tattoos.

As soon as Sam's Colt exploded, one figure flew backward onto the stone hearth. Hearing Hector's Colt explode from the chair where he sat, Sam saw the other figure spin upward and away, his machete flying from his hand.

‘‘Hector, are you all right?'' Sam called out as he spun in place, his smoking Colt scanning the room until he saw there were no more strange-looking figures in white ready to spring out on them.

"Sí!
I'm all right.'' Hector jumped up from the chair, his Colt also smoking. Sam saw the worried look on his face as the young lawman sided over to him quickly, half-crouched. ‘‘We must get out of here, fast,'' Hector said, looking all around, then down at the two bodies. ‘‘There are more of them!'' He crossed himself as he backed toward the open front door.

‘‘Who are these people?'' Sam asked, reaching down to grab one body by its shirt collar and drag it out onto the porch.

‘‘They are demons, from the cult of Satan's Brothers,'' said Hector, calming down enough to drag the other body out, his Colt still cocked and smoking as he did so. ‘‘They are Suelo Soto's protectors—you can count on it.''

The two stepped down from the porch and spread out, putting a few feet of space between them, covering each other as they made their way to the horses. At the hitch rail, out in the open, Hector calmed down, looking all around the wide-open front yard. ‘‘Come,'' he said. ‘‘We will get out onto the open trail. I do not like being at close quarters with these demons and the evil they embody.''

Chapter 20

Fifteen miles south of the Mexican border, the seven-car train began a long climb up a steep hillside. The peak of the long hill had been blasted and parted into a deep V, allowing trains to taper down to level ground on their journey before traveling down the other side. Of the seven cars behind the smoke-bellowing engine, only three were legitimate.

The car following the engine carried the cargo of gold unstamped coins. The car behind it carried thirty well-armed Mexican soldiers. The car behind the troops carried a group of Mexican officers, and three German government officials. The other three cars and caboose were merely decoys to detract any public attention from the train's valuable cargo. But Memphis Beck and his gang were not detracted. They waited and watched the train intently.

Near the top of the steep uphill grade, Beck caught the first glimpse of the train rolling into sight beneath a bellowing wreath of gray smoke. ‘‘Here it comes. Get ready, gentlemen,'' he said to Collin Hedgepeth and Earl Caplan, who set their horses beside him.

‘‘Ready here,'' Caplan replied.

‘‘And here,'' said Hedgepeth.

Looking up at the top of the hill, Beck murmured under his breath, ‘‘Soto, you had better be as good as you think you are.''

The three pulled their bandannas up to cover their faces and nudged their horses forward onto the brush-covered side of the grade. Beck rode at the lead, judging how long before the train rolled along beside them, how much more the steep hillside would have slowed it down by then. Behind him Hedgepeth tugged his shiny derby hat down firmly and said, ‘‘I'm starting to get too old for this part of a job. I think next time some younger man should have a go at it.''

‘‘Next time, all right,'' said Beck, ‘‘but this time you're the one pulling the pin. We're all counting on you.''

‘‘Don't start with your worrying, English,'' said Caplan behind his bandanna mask. ‘‘I hate it when you start doubting yourself.''

‘‘I'm not doubting myself,'' said Hedgepeth. ‘‘I'm merely stating a point.''

‘‘Point taken,'' Beck said idly over his shoulder. ‘‘Now, spread out.''

The three separated along the rails, Caplan riding higher up the grade away from the other two, Beck and Hedgepeth lingering near the cover of brush until the ever-slowing train began chugging along with much effort.

Inside the officers' car, one of the Germans raised a curtain just enough to glance out into the harsh sunlight. Then he dropped the curtain and said to the others, ‘‘We have nearly halted, Captain Guzman.''

‘‘It is a long, steep grade, this one,'' said a thin, young Mexican captain seated at a table set for breakfast. He sipped coffee from a floral, hand-painted mug. ‘‘But after this one we will be on much flatter land for most of the day.''

‘‘These excavations and new rail services are proof of Germany's commitment to a lasting friendship with your government,'' the other German dignitary took the opportunity to remind the Mexican officers.

"Sí,
" the young captain said in acknowledgment, ‘‘and as my uncle, Generalissimo Matissmo, has instructed me to say, sharing this gold with you is our way of saying
gracias.
''

‘‘I have a question of concern,'' said the other German, touching a white linen napkin to his wide, sweeping mustache. ‘‘With all of the armed guards we have aboard, why is it we have none posted atop the cars, or anywhere outside?''

‘‘It is the generalissimo's idea, and a wise one to be sure,'' the captain said, tapping his forehead. ‘‘Why bring attention to what we are doing?'' He grinned and added half jokingly, ‘‘The gold is
inside
! What better place to have my men guarding it?''

The German didn't see the humor in it. He frowned and gave the captain an icy stare.

But before he could comment, his fellow official, Herr Steinven, said to the captain, ‘‘You must excuse Herr Frunhiem. It is a tendency of our government to be overprotective in matters of this nature. Perhaps we can learn something from your people in this regard.'' He gave the other German a searing look. ‘‘Eh, Herr Frunhiem?''

‘‘I must admit it is true,'' Herr Frunhiem said, catching his comrade's subtle reprimand. ‘‘Forgive me my meticulous ways. I know that you and your generalissimo are far more familiar with your land and your people than I.''

Sipping his coffee, the captain shrugged and said, ‘‘I commend you for your concern and close attention. But along this line there is never any trouble. The first thing the generalissimo did when he took power was start hanging banditos.'' He smiled. ‘‘Unlike our
americano
neighbors, our rails are safe.'' He raised his coffee cup as if in salute. ‘‘I say let them have their robbers and desperados. Here, we have no Jesse James, no Warren Beck. Here we know how to keep the gold in the proper hands.''

Herr Frunhiem moved back and forth in his seat, his hands holding on to the table edge.

‘‘Is there something wrong, Herr Frun—''

‘‘Are we moving backward?'' Frunhiem asked, cutting him off.

‘‘Backward?'' Captain Guzman sat with a baffled look on his face for a moment. But then reality snapped on in his head and he jumped to his feet and threw up a window curtain.

‘‘Yes,
backward
, you fool!'' shouted Stienven, both he and Frunhiem springing up from the table, jerking linen napkins from the front of their suits.

‘‘Guards! See what is going on!'' Guzman shouted over his shoulder, sticking his head out the window and seeing the engine and the gold car far ahead of them, chugging on, closing the gap to the top of the hill.

‘‘What's going on?''
Stenhiem raged out of control. ‘‘We are going
backward
, you uncivilized monkey! Do you have to ask?''

Without being ordered, two guards ran out onto the car's platform. One grabbed the iron brake wheel and, turning it frantically, tightened it down, hearing the metal on metal screeching sound beneath their feet. From the rear door of the troop car in front of them, young soldiers spilled out onto the platform and began turning the brake wheel on their car. The engineless train began to slow, but not much as the gravity of the steep grade pulled them downward.