Ambush at Shadow Valley (3 page)

Considering the ranger's words, Hector let out a tense breath. ‘‘At least you did not lie to me the way I have come to expect you gring—'' He caught and corrected himself quickly. ‘‘I mean, the way I have come to expect you
americanos
to do.''

‘‘I've got no reason to lie to you, Hector,'' Sam said quietly, watching the blanketed cantina door. ‘‘I'm here to do my job, nothing else.''

"Sí
, do your job,'' said Hector, nodding. ‘‘Talk to this killer and see what you can find out from him before he dies choking on his own blood.'' Hector spit on the ground in disgust.

Sam had no idea if the young Mexican's disgust was aimed at him, at the system of law he worked for or at the universe in general, but he had no time to think about it now. From up the street a small gathering of men had ventured out of hiding and began walking cautiously toward the well. They carried shotguns, pitchforks and ancient, wooden-stocked flintlock pistols. Leading them were the elderly American who'd called out to the ranger earlier, and an old mineral surveyor named Simon Gates. He carried a coiled rope at his side and slapped it angrily against his thigh as he walked.

The ranger used the townsmen as a reason to call out again to the trapped and wounded outlaw. ‘‘Hirsh, they're coming for you, rope coiled and ready. I can't stop them, unless I take you into custody.''

No response came from inside the cantina. After waiting for a moment, Sam said, ‘‘Hirsh? Do you hear me in there?''

A single gunshot exploded, not from the window but from deeper inside the cantina. The sound stopped the advancing villagers and sent a few of them scrambling to the side. Hector asked the ranger, ‘‘Did he shoot himself?''

‘‘Knowing Hirsh, I doubt it,'' said the ranger. ‘‘It could be a trick.''

‘‘A trick?'' Hector asked curiously. ‘‘How can this be a trick?'' He looked at the ranger in disbelief.

‘‘With these men you always watch out for a trick.''

‘‘But what good would a trick do him when he is going to die?'' Hector asked.

‘‘Men like Hirsh don't stop until they're dead, Hector,'' Sam said, seeing that the young man had no lack of courage, but seemed to have no savvy about men like Dick Hirsh. ‘‘The prospect of taking a couple more lives might be all that's keeping him hanging on.''

‘‘Then he is not a man at all, but a devil,'' said Hector. He stopped himself from instinctively making a sign of the cross on his chest. ‘‘All of his kind must be stopped.''

‘‘Now you're talking,'' Sam said wryly. ‘‘Keep everybody back while I get inside.'' Without another word on the matter, Sam moved away in a crouch, following the circular stone wall around the well until he reached the point closest to the front of the cantina.

Hector watched him run to the cantina's front and press his back against the adobe wall beside the doorway. Using the shotgun barrel, Sam reached out, shoved the blanket to the side, peeped in, then slipped inside the cantina. As soon as he stepped inside, he stopped and looked over at Dick Hirsh lying sprawled on the dirt floor twenty feet away. On the side of Hirsh's head he saw fresh blood.

Dead . . . ?
He didn't think so. He saw no spray of blood and brain matter along the floor or on the wall, but he did quickly take note that Hirsh still gripped a cocked Colt. Quietly, Sam said, "Hirsh, when you make your move with that pistol, I'm giving you both barrels.''

In the dirt, Hirsh's gun hand opened slowly, dropped the Colt and moved away from it. ‘‘Damn it, Ranger . . . all right,'' he growled, his voice sounding weak but still defiant.

His shotgun poised ready, Sam stepped closer, not convinced that was the only trick the wounded gunman had up his sleeve. ‘‘Which way are they headed, Hirsh?'' he asked, looking all around the abandoned cantina, and seeing only a broken chair and an overturned table.

‘‘I'll—I'll tell you, Ranger,'' the wounded outlaw said haltingly, his hand going to his
real
wound, the gaping bullet hole in his chest. ‘‘Come over here . . . so's I don't have to holler.''

Here it comes, another trick,
Sam told himself. But he stepped forward all the same. Behind him he heard Hector say from the doorway, ‘‘I'm coming in, Ranger. I told the men to stay back out of the—''

‘‘No, wait, Hector,'' the ranger warned, seeing the overturned table roll sideways a foot as one of the escaped convicts sprang up from behind it.

On the floor Hirsh grabbed his Colt as the ranger's shotgun exploded at the rushing convict, picking the gunman up from behind the overturned table and flinging him backward. But he knew he didn't have time to swing the shotgun back around toward Hirsh before Hirsh pulled the trigger.

But it didn't matter. Hector reacted quickly, seeing Hirsh grab the pistol. Before the wounded outlaw could get a shot off, the Winchester bucked in Hector's hands and sent a round into Hirsh's shoulder, causing the Colt to fly from his grip.

‘‘Damn it!'' Hirsh moaned. ‘‘I'm shot again . . . shot twice by my own gun!'' His voice, though still weak, sounded stronger than it had moments earlier.

‘‘I will make it three times,'' Hector said, levering another round into the rifle chamber.

‘‘No, hold your fire,'' Sam said, raising a gloved hand toward Hector to stop him from firing again. Stepping forward with his smoking shotgun aimed at Dick Hirsh, Sam said, ‘‘Hirsh, there're men waiting out there wanting to string you up. Either tell me where Suelo Soto and Nate Ransdale are headed, or I'll feed you to them. You can spend your last minutes swinging from a limb.''

Hirsh let out a shallow breath and said, ‘‘All right, Ranger. That's Ted Shala . . . you killed over there.'' He gasped to catch his breath, then continued. ‘‘Soto, Ransdale and me were all . . . headed south, down through Sonora, going to lose ourselves.''

Sam stared at him, wondering if he should believe a word of it. ‘‘Sonora, huh?''

Hearing the ranger's tone, Hirsh said, ‘‘It's the truth, Ranger. I don't owe . . . them two nothing.'' His voice grew weaker as he spoke. ‘‘It was Soto's idea . . . for me and Shala to gun you down. He could have . . . taken me with them, but
no . . .
he left us here.''

‘‘What's in Sonora?'' Sam asked.

‘‘I expect I'll . . . never know.'' Hirsh gave a weak grin; blood trickled from his lips. ‘‘Will you . . . ?''

Sam and Hector watched the outlaw's eyes glaze over and turn blank. Sam let his shotgun slump in his hands as he stepped over and took a closer look at the other dead man lying sprawled on the dirt floor, riddled with buckshot. ‘‘Obliged for your help, Hector,'' he said over his shoulder as he opened the shotgun to replace the spent shell.

‘‘You are welcome, Ranger,'' Hector replied. He turned the big Winchester back and forth as he looked at it. As far as he was concerned the repeating rifle now belonged to him. ‘‘Do you think he is telling the truth about Sonora?''

‘‘He could be,'' Sam replied, ‘‘but I wouldn't count on it.''

‘‘When will you go after the other two?'' Hector asked, cradling the rifle.

‘‘As soon as I rest my stallion and find myself a good meal,'' Sam said, hearing the men venture toward the blanketed doorway.

‘‘Careful, boys,'' Simon Gates said to the others in a gravelly voice. He held the front door blanket to the side and looked in, the coiled rope in his clenched fist. Inside the cantina, the men looked back and forth at the bodies on the dirt floor. ‘‘Hot damn, fellows,'' Gates chuckled. ‘‘It looks like our own Hector Sandavol is a bonafide gunfighting hero.'' He gestured his coiled rope toward the dead outlaws. ‘‘Let's get this trash cleared out of here. I think the town of Valle Hermoso owes us all a drink.''

‘‘I have no time for drinking,'' said Hector, turning toward the door. ‘‘My brother, Ramon, is lying dead in the street.''

‘‘I'll give you a hand,'' said Sam, following him out of the cantina.

Giving the rest of the men an annoyed look, Gates called out, ‘‘Well, what are you all waiting for? Let's give Hector a hand with his brother.''

Chapter 2

The ranger helped the young Mexican carry his brother off the street while Gates and the rest of the men followed close behind, carrying Valle Hermoso's dead constable. The group stepped back and waited outside as Sam and Hector carried the body to a small plank-and-adobe shack where an elderly widow had quickly cleared a battered wooden table when she saw them coming. Two villagers laid the body of the elderly constable beside Ramon; then they backed out of the open doorway and joined Gates and the others.

The old woman patted Hector's shoulder in sympathy and left to fetch a gourd of water and a washcloth. Hector stared down at his brother's body for a moment, then crossed himself and looked at the body of the old constable.

‘‘This one's name is Luis Gravis. He grew up here with our father.'' Gesturing at the dead law-man's worn-out Confederate tunic, he added, ‘‘President Davis promised him land in your country if he would fight for the Southern cause.'' He gave a slight sigh and patted the constable's dusty, streaked forehead. ‘‘But we know how that turned out, eh, Luis?''

‘‘I'll wait outside,'' Sam said quietly, backing away to give Hector time alone with the dead.

‘‘I go too,'' Hector said stiffly, seeing the woman, ready to attend to the corpses, return. He turned and walked out the door behind the ranger. ‘‘I will visit my brother's body again before I leave Valle Hermoso, if there is time. If not, Ramon will understand,'' he added.

The ranger stopped out front of the old woman's shack and turned to Hector. ‘‘Before you leave? Where are you going?'' he asked, realizing that he already knew the answer.

‘‘I am going after those murderers as well, Ranger,'' he said.

As Gates and the rest of the villagers gathered closer around them, Sam said, ‘‘I have to tell you, Hector, I work alone.''

‘‘I said nothing about riding with you, Ranger,'' Hector replied. ‘‘I know this country as well as any man. I will have no trouble hunting these animals down.'' He jutted his chin with determination. ‘‘I do it for my brother. He would have done the same for me.''

Sam wanted to say more on the matter, but he could tell that his words weren't going to make any difference to this strong-willed young man. He started to turn away and walk to where Black Pot still stood, diligently awaiting him in the dirt street. But before Sam walked away, Gates said to Hector, ‘‘We've all talked it over. We'd like you to take Luis Gravis' badge and be the town
guardia
of Valle Hermoso.''

‘‘I am honored,'' said Hector, ‘‘but I cannot be town
guardia.
Did you not hear me tell the ranger that I am going after the men who killed Ramon and Luis?''

‘‘So?'' said Simon Gates. ‘‘That's all right with us, right amigos?'' He turned to the other men for support. ‘‘Ramon was one of us, don't forget. And Gravis was the law in Valle Hermoso.'' He pointed toward the door of the widow's adobe where the two bodies lay. ‘‘There're two good men lying dead. If you can bring the murderers in, we're behind you all the way. We'll make up a posse and ride with you until they're—''

‘‘No,'' said Hector, stopping Gates short. ‘‘There will be no posse, not if I am
guardia.''

‘‘Then you'll take on Luis' job and uphold the law here?'' Gates asked.

Hector looked to the ranger, then back at Gates. With a slight sigh, he said,
"Sí
, I will be
guardia
for Valle Hermoso, at least for now. I will do it so I can hunt these men down.'' He pointed a finger at Gates as if for emphasis. ‘‘But I do not want a posse with me. It is better that I go alone.'' Even as he spoke, a young boy hurried into the widow's adobe and came running back with the bloodstained badge in his hand.

‘‘Anything you say, Guardia Hector Sandoval,'' said Gates. He took the badge, wiped it off and pinned it on Hector's shirt. ‘‘On behalf of Valle Hermoso I welcome and congratulate you to office.''

‘‘Gracias,''
said Hector, appearing humble. ‘‘I will do the best I can.'' He looked around at the villagers and said, ‘‘Now I have to go. I must gather supplies and prepare my horse for the trail.''

Gates looked disappointed, but he tried to cover it with a wide smile. ‘‘Shouldn't we celebrate first? Just a drink or two? It's not every day a man becomes a lawman.''

‘‘It is not every day a man loses a brother, or a town loses a good man like Luis Gravis,'' Hector replied. ‘‘I cannot celebrate a day such as this.''

‘‘You're absolutely right,'' said Gates. His smile vanished. ‘‘I meant no offense.'' He turned from Hector to the other men and said in a somber tone, ‘‘All right, men, let's go inside the cantina and raise our glasses in solemn remembrance of our dear friends. . . .''

Hector had already started walking away as Gates spoke. Watching the serious young man as he cradled the Winchester in his arm and headed purposefully toward the village stables, the ranger let out a breath, shook his head slightly and walked to where Black Pot stood waiting. He gathered the stallion's reins and caught up to Hector before he turned the corner toward the stables.

‘‘Maybe it would be a good idea for us to ride together, after all, Hector,'' he said quietly, leading Black Pot behind him.