Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) (36 page)

Old Falcon looked in that direction, frowned as he took off his sombrero and ran his hand through silver hair. “That’s desolate, isolated terrain—real Comanchero country, all right.”

A whispered groan ran through the crowd. Everyone knew of some family who had lost a pretty female relative to the
bandidos
and Comancheros, never to be seen again.

Señor Durango took a deep, shuddering breath. “Between us, old friend, we can put more than a hundred vaqueros in the saddle.”

Romeros feigned dizziness as he swayed to his feet. “And I will lead them, señor.”

“No, you won’t!” The elderly Falcon caught his arm, helped him to sit down on the ground. “You’re badly hurt.” He turned to a vaquero. “Get this man in my house, Put him in one of the best rooms!” He gave Romeros a puzzled look. “Perhaps I have been wrong about you. . . .” He didn’t finish.

It was all Romeros could do to keep from grinning with delight at how well his plan was working. “I should help lead the posse,” he protested, but he allowed the old man to keep him from getting up.

Señor Falcon shook his silver head. “No, Romeros. You would slow us down, hurt as you are. We must move fast as a scorpion’s sting! I’ll lead this chase myself!”

Romeros saw the hesitance on Durango’s fat face.

“My friend,” Durango said, pulling at his gray mustache, “I think—that is, I feel—maybe you should stay here, too, with Romeros. I am younger than you and in better health. I will lead the vaqueros.”

Falcon frowned, his furrowed face wrinkling. “I forget how old I am sometimes. But I am still a good rider, I could go—”

“No, my good friend,” Durango said gently. “We ride hard. I fear you can’t keep up the pace. Besides, your señora is in poor health and may need you. Stay here with Romeros.”

The wisdom of his words seemed to sink in on the old man. His proud shoulders bowed. “I suppose you are right,” he murmured. “If I lack the stamina, I will hold you back, delay the capture. But what shall I tell my dear wife?”

Durango stroked his mustache. “In her state of health? I’d lie to her, tell her Tony’s off at a roundup, anything to keep her from knowing the truth until . . .” He didn’t finish.

The vaqueros murmured among themselves, nodding in agreement. They had all liked the Texan, liked him much more than they liked the foreman. Romeros knew it, but he’d show them. When he controlled both ranches, he’d get even with every vaquero who had crossed him. The Durangos and Falcons had always been too easy, too kind to their employees.

Señor Durango faced the men. “Get mounted! We ride!”

Vaqueros scattered, running for weapons, horses.

Romeros groaned again. “I’m hurt bad, but I need to go and help—”

“No, Romeros.” Señor Falcon shook his head. “Gomez is right. I’m too old and you’re too hurt to go! We’d only delay them. But do tell me again in more detail what happened and which way you think the posse should search!”

Romeros relaxed, watched the confusion whirl about him as men ran for horses, shouted orders. In only a few minutes, more than a hundred angry vaqueros were gathered in the Falcon corral. He made up an elaborate story to send the rescue party on a vain hunt.

Señor Falcon ordered two men to carry the injured foreman into the big mansion. The last thing Romeros saw as he was carried away was the vengeful mob of vaqueros led by Señor Durango thundering out of the corral, headed on a wild-goose chase to the west.

Bandit was saddled up long before dawn. He ate a piece of smoked jerky wrapped in a tortilla and mounted up. Saturday was going to be another hot day. He thought about Amethyst riding without her hat, thought about the relentless sun on her delicate skin.

As long as he kept his mind on someting like her pert nose peeling, he wouldn’t think about other things such as whether that trio of gunslingers might have enjoyed her slender body on that last night when they camped.

He gritted his teeth. If those three had hurt her in any way, he’d kill them Indian style, making them beg for death. And if he ever got her in his arms again, he’d hold her close against his big chest forever, never let her go. She would always be safe in his powerful embrace.

The dark eastern sky faded into pale pink as he checked for tracks, swung into the saddle. The note had told him where to meet them with the gold that night up near the San Rodrigo River, a few miles from Remolino. They’d probably try an ambush but he was too trailwise for that. The bandit from Bandera hadn’t lived all these years by riding into traps. He was tougher than a longhorn bull and slier than a coyote.

Bandit nudged the blue-eyed horse, set off north at a steady pace. No, he wouldn’t ride into their ambush at the river. He’d pick the showdown time and place himself, and he didn’t intend for any of those three pistoleros to walk away alive.

He glanced over his shoulder at the saddlebags. He’d really meant to figure out a way to return the money to the U.S. Army. But now he might be forced to trade it for Amethyst’s safety.

Romeros
. With a frown, he thought of the foreman as he shifted his weight in the saddle. Had that skulking wolf gone back to Falcon’s Lair for help? Not likely. He’d figure out a way to save his own skin, thinking Bandit and the girl were probably finished. If Bandit survived all this, rescued the girl, he’d deal with that bastard, and finally do the honorable thing. Even a pistolero was capable of honor.

The day was going to be hot, though it was only the middle of May. Somewhere up ahead, the woman he loved was the hostage of three outlaws. Setting his square jaw in a grim line, he urged the pinto forward.

That Saturday was the longest day of Amethyst’s life. The May sun burned her delicate skin as the four of them rode north. She did everything she could to delay their progress, knowing the plan called for Bandit to ride into the outlaw’s camp on the San Rodrigo River about dark that night. They planned to ambush him, but if she could delay them a little here, a little there, it was possible Bandit might catch up to them unexpectedly. As they rode, she watched the sun move relentlessly across the sky.

Colonel Mackenzie glanced up at the sun, wiped the sweat from his neck.

Lieutenant Carter grinned, took off his hat, mopped his face. “Hot enough for you?”

Mackenzie frowned but resisted the urge to snap at the officer over the stupid remark. Mackenzie knew he had a reputation for being irritable, short-tempered. Sometimes he couldn’t help it. His war wounds pained him, and his duty sometimes weighed too heavily on his thin shoulders. “I’ll bet it’s up in the nineties. The only thing we can be thankful for is that the rainy season hasn’t started. Mud would delay us, especially those heavily loaded pack mules.”

Carter nodded. “You really think we need that much ammunition, supplies?”

“I’m set for anything. Dashing in without enough ammunition, leaving the pack train behind is the sort of thing Custer would do.” He immediately regretted his rash remark. Mackenzie was a professional soldier, loath to criticize any fellow officer, and he and Custer had both been “boy generals” in the Civil War.

Carter said, “We may end up in the history books after this weekend.”

Mackenzie snorted. “If we don’t get shot by a firing squad of Mexicans or court-martialed when we get back! ”

“I’ve been wanting to write a book about all our adventures fighting Indians.”

The colonel laughed in spite of himself. “Who’d want to read about that?”

“I don’t know, maybe someone.” Carter stroked his mustache. “If I ever write it, I intend to dedicate it to you and the men of the Fourth.”

Mackenzie smiled, shifted his weight on his horse. “I don’t think anyone’ll be interested in cavalry fighting Indians along the border. We aren’t colorful enough.”

“But it is exciting and heroic,” the lieutenant insisted.

Mackenzie frowned. “The one who’ll get the glory and the books written about him will probably be Custer. You know he always takes newspaper reporters with him when he’s out on a campaign. He got out of that court-martial, and last I heard, he’ll probably go north against the Sioux.”

Carter wiped the sweat from his face. “We aren’t having any trouble with the Sioux.”

“There’s rumors of gold in the Black Hills,” Mackenzie explained. “Even a rumor will send white men looking; then the Sioux will get angry over the trespassing, and we’ll have an Indian war up there, too.”

Carter gave him an admiring look. “You’ve done a damned good job down here in Texas, sir.”

“Good, hell! Had my own horse stolen. Have to admire Quanah, though. We haven’t seen the last of him.”

Carter only grunted in agreement. The Comanche were led by the young half-breed chief, Quanah Parker, whose mother had been a white girl stolen by the Comanche as a child. Quanah had managed to steal Mackenzie’s favorite horse, and now rode it. The colonel both hated and admired the young chief.

Mackenzie thought aloud. “The wet sponges under the men’s hats seem to be helping some. I don’t think we’ve had any troopers collapse from sunstroke yet.”

Carter turned in his saddle, looked back at the column. “We’ve got a long way to go, sir, and the heat will be hard on the horses.”

Mackenzie looked back over his shoulder. The alkali dust whirled up under the hundreds of hooves, coating the lathered horses and the sweating men. It gave them all a ghostly appearance. The closer they got to the
Rio
Grande,
the more desolate the terrain became. Cactus stuck its spiny thorns out to catch the unwary who got too far from the trail, and the mesquite blossoms just beginning to open smelled almost sickeningly sweet in the May air. When he ran his tongue over his lips, he tasted grit and salty sweat. “Let’s rest the horses, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.” The captain cantered back to pass the order, and Mackenzie reined in, swung down with a sigh. Now why would anybody want to write a book about the misery they’d endured chasing Indians? It wasn’t exciting and heroic. No, mostly it was hot and boring with little to break the monotony of a frontier fort.

Mackenzie sought the scant shade of a live oak, dreaming about ice. A small piece packed in sawdust could be shipped from San Antonio, but at great expense. He sipped the lukewarm water in his canteen, and thought about big glasses of ice, water so cold it made his teeth hurt. He thought about it a minute, then smiled. No, Carter would never write that book. If he did, who’d want to read it?

What he hadn’t told Carter was that the column was moving at a leisurely pace for only one reason; Mackenzie was gauging it so they’d arrive at the Rio Grande at about dark Saturday night. If there were spies anywhere in the area, he didn’t want them reporting to the Federales or scattered war parties that the U.S. Army was crossing into forbidden territory. Once they crossed the river, the pace would have to pick up. The Indian camp lay about sixty miles below the border. He planned to take that sleeping camp by surprise at dawn Sunday before the few warriors there had time to organize their defense.

He looked up at the sun as he swung back into the saddle. Saturday was going to be a long, hot day, and the men would have to ride at a fast pace all night to be at the Indian camp by sunup. It was just as well they didn’t know that, didn’t even know about the attack. He watched the men remount. Most of them looked hot and bored, figuring this to be a routine scouting expedition that would turn around at the river. He signaled to the Seminole scouts to lead out again. One look at their dark, eager faces told him they knew but would keep silent. The legalities were lost on them anyway. They thought only of a chance to attack their tribal enemies.

He listened to the officers shouting orders along the column, the sound drifting on the stifling air. Four hundred men and a long pack train of ammunition and supplies that must not fall into the hands of the Indians and be used against the soldiers. The responsibility weighed heavily on his slight shoulders because of the lack of written orders. He looked down at his crippled right hand as he urged his horse forward.
Mangoheute
. Three Fingers, he thought wryly. With any luck, Three Fingers and the Fourth Cavalry will meet the Kickapoo, Lipan, and Mescalero Apache in battle at dawn on Sunday, May 18, 1873.

With a sigh, he straightened his weary frame, ever the professional soldier. The column swung out again behind him, the men riding in formations of four, Captain McLaughlen’s gray-horse I Company ready for action.

Old Cougar and his grandson passed the long, hot day repairing bows made of mulberry wood, talking of long-ago raids against Apache enemies.

The late afternoon sent long shadows across the wickiup as a brave galloped into the camp, dismounted. “Great leader, we watch for the gringo riders as you ask.”

Cougar smiled with satisfaction at his grandson. “Do they still ride north, those four?”

The brave nodded. “At the rate they ride, they will probably camp downriver tonight near our Kickapoo friends’ village.”

Sun Shield scrambled to his feet, his dark eyes bright with triumph. “Now, Grandfather Ndolkah! Now we ride out and attack them!”

But Cougar only smiled and stood up slowly. “No, we won’t do that.” He said to the scout, “Keep watch on them as they near us. Let me know their moves. We shall share meat tonight with friends at the Kickapoo-Lipan camp.”

“But Grandfather—!”

Cougar waved him to silence, dismissed the scout with a curt nod. Then he turned back to the boy. “Sun Shield, if you are ever to be a great war leader, you must learn when to wait. Why spend time and energy going out to the enemy if patience will bring him to you? We shall spring our trap when the hated gringos camp for the night.”

The young Apache smiled with slow understanding. “I will remember that, Grandfather. Everything you teach me, I shall remember when I am a war leader. Still, our warriors in camp now are as few as leaves in winter with most of the braves gone west on the hunt.”

The old man reached for his war lance. “With the element of surprise and an unsuspecting quarry, we shall not need many men. Tonight you earn your first honors against the enemies of your people.”

“I want no honors, I want vengeance against the three who raped my mother, tortured my father, and left me for dead.”

“You will get both tonight when you bloody your lance for the first time,” Cougar promised solemnly. “Now let us ride down the river to share supper with my old friend, the Lipan chief, Costilietos. After dark, we will creep up on the gringos and pounce on them.”

The boy looked down at his breastplace thoughtfully. “I have waited five years for this moment.”

The old chief felt a spasm of pain. “I, too, have waited, fearing that old age would take my life before I could revenge my son. Tonight we will pay back in blood what the gringos did to your parents!”

Colonel Mackenzie glanced up at the late Saturday afternoon sun with satisfaction, then signaled another rest for the sweating men and horses. He had planned to keep to a leisurely pace, which was just as well since the day had turned so hot. The regiment would reach the Rio Grande at about dusk. The scouts had told him of a shallow ford where the cavalry and the string of pack mules could cross the river after dark. Four hundred American cavalry troops riding below the forbidden river would be hard enough to keep secret, even after dark. What would he do if some sharp-eyed peasant or brave alerted the Federales?

Yes, today he had set a slow pace from camp to the river. But once they crossed it at dark, he would have to set a killing pace. Before Sunday dawned, he had to cover almost sixty miles of hostile Mexican country. Precise timing was essential if he were to have his troops in place to attack the sleeping Indian camp as Sunday dawned.

Saturday night. Amethyst slid from her horse, too exhausted to care what happened now that it was growing dark and they had finally reached the outlaws’ camp. If they felt safe enough from pursuit to rape her tonight, she was almost past caring.

Wearily, she took the coffee pot, went to the river to fill it. While she dawdled, she listened to the three men talk. Big ’Un started a small fire, unsaddled the horses.

Finally Petty seemed to notice her. “Nagnab it, gal, where’s that coffee?”

She turned, hurried back to the fire.

Because she really didn’t know much about campfire cooking, it took her awhile to get coffee made and a skillet going, full of bacon cut with Petty’s borrowed butcher knife. She tried to sneak the knife into the folds of her riding habit but got caught at it.

“No, you don’t!” Petty said, grabbing the knife from her. “I may look stupid, but I know enough to hang onto my own knife!”

The trio lounged around the little campfire, leaning against their saddles while Amethyst finished the cooking, fixed them each a tin plate of steaming bacon and beans, even managed to pat out some corn dodgers and fry them in the sizzling bacon grease.

“Hey, you.” Petty grinned at her. “Bring me a cup of coffee and just dip your finger in it. I like my coffee like I like my women, hot and sweet.”

Big ’Un guffawed. “He likes it black, too.”

Petty’s face went livid, and the giant Yankee laughed.

Ringo gobbled his food, spoke with his mouth full. “I swear, Big ‘Un, don’t you two ever get tired of jawin’ at each other like that?”

Amethyst gave him a slight smile. “I don’t know why a big-time gunfighter like you bothers with the likes of them.”

Ringo’s eyes widened with pleased surprise at the compliment and he stopped chewing, took a more interested look at her.

But Big ’Un slapped his thigh and laughed. “Hell, honey, he ain’t no big-time gunfighter! Used to be, before he pickled hisself in alcohol over some gal!”

“That’s right,” Petty agreed, pausing in shoveling his beans in. “Ringo’s hands shake so bad, he couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a double-barreled shotgun.”

Ringo turned dark red; his fist clenched on his fork.

But Amethyst gave him a flirtatious smile. “I don’t believe that.”

“Hey, Ringo.” Petty laughed. “The gal likes you!”

Ringo stared at her a moment, then went back to eating.

Amethyst got herself a plate of food, a cup of steaming coffee; and she slumped near the fire. The desert night grew cooler. Stars hung in the midnight sky like bits of ice. Somewhere a coyote howled, a night bird called.

Ringo stiffened. “I don’t recognize that bird.”

“So what?” Big ’Un shrugged. “Mexico’s got a lot of birds we don’t have in Texas.”

Ringo thought a minute, reached for his whiskey bottle. “Reckon that’s so.”

Amethyst held the tin cup in both hands, bone-tired and grateful for the heat from the steaming coffee. Her little mare whinnied, looking toward her. She stared back at Heartaches in helpless frustration. “Sorry, girl, no nice barn and oats out here. You’ll have to do with grass.”

Petty laughed in derision. “Damned horse as spoiled and used to high livin’ as her owner. What breed nag is that, anyhow? It’s got a strange gait, kinda reminds me of that Tennessee Walker Captain Shawn O’Bannion rode.”

If they had any idea Heartaches was a valuable Paso Fino, they’d sell her. Amethyst shrugged. “Just a blood bay horse, a little small for most men’s taste.”

Ringo yawned. “You two men get some shuteye. I’ll take the first watch. Come here, honey, I’ll tie you back up.”

“Ain’t we gonna get a chance at the gal now?” Big ’Un glared at him.

“Yeah,” Petty drawled, “I’m ready for some sugar.”

She couldn’t read the expression on Ringo’s face as she gave him her most pitiful look, her heart pounding hard with fear.

“Naw,” Ringo said, “Not tonight, anyhow. She starts screamin’, who knows who might hear her? Sound carries a long way in the desert.”

Big ’Un glowered at him. “Hell, it wouldn’t be no trouble to shut her up!”

As Amethyst held her breath, Ringo put his hand on the butt of his pistol. “I may not be the fastest gun in Texas anymore, Big ’Un, but I can still outdraw you.”

There was a long, tense moment during which the three men glared at each other as if waiting for someone to make the first move.

“Nagnab it,” Petty grumbled, “I reckon it ain’t worth a fight. There’s plenty of time for her after we kill her boyfriend and get back across the border.”

He and the giant Yankee got their blankets and spread them close to the fire, both grumbling under their breaths.

She rewarded Ringo with a grateful look. “Thank you for that,” she said softly.

“Forget it. Now where’s that rawhide thong?”

She held out her raw, red wrists for him to see. “Ringo, do you have to tie me up? Look, my wrists are already bleeding and I’m not going anywhere in the dark. I’m more afraid of what’s out there—”she nodded over her shoulder—“than I am of you.”

He took her small wrists in his hands. “That bastard, Petty. I didn’t know he had tied you so tight.”

She looked up at him, her lips pouting, half-opened. With her hands untied, if the trio should all doze off, she could take the little mare, scatter the other horses, and head back south.

Ringo took his rifle, moved out to sit on a big rock a few yards from the camp. She hesitated, and he said, “What you waitin’ for? Get some sleep.”

She came over to him, put her hand on his arm. Even from here, she could smell the sour whiskey on his breath. “I—I’m afraid of those other two if I get over by the fire,” she whispered. “Can I wrap up in my blanket, sit here with you?”

He shrugged. “Reckon so.”

“I’m cold. Let’s have a drink.”

He offered his bottle. “I can quit any time I want to,” he explained. “I just don’t want to.”

“I understand. You don’t have to make excuses to me, Ringo.” She took the bottle, pretended to take a big swig from it when in reality she barely wet her lips with the strong, raw liquor before handing it back to him.

The other two slept now, snoring loudly.

He hesitated, looking at her as if seeing her for the very first time. “You’re more than pretty, you know that?”

Amethyst looked up at him from under her eyelashes. “I was just thinking you’re different from those other two.”

Ringo reached out, put one trembling hand on her face; and she forced herself not to recoil from his touch. “You know, honey—”

“Amethyst,” she said softly, “like the jewel.”

He smiled, his fingers trailing along her jaw. “Fits you. I hadn’t realized ’til now that you’ve got violet eyes, sort of a smoky, almost purple color like a Texas sunrise.”

With great self-control, she pressed her face against his hand rather than shuddering. “Ringo, what’s going to happen to me?”

He didn’t meet her look. “You can go back with your sweetheart if he brings the money tomorrow.”

“You know those other two don’t intend to let me go.” She jerked her head back toward the pair asleep by the fire.

“I still boss this gang, and what I say goes. If either of them lay a hand on you, Amethyst, they’ll answer to me,” he said a little grandly.

“You’re different from those bums you ride with. I saw that right off.” She forced herself to smile up at him. “Why do you ride with them? You outclass them.”

“Hell, you think I don’t know that?”

She reached up, caught his hand between both of hers. “You’re too smart to be with them. Have you ever thought about goin’ it alone?”

Ringo hesitated. “I—I don’t handle a gun as well as I used to.”

“Says who?” she challenged, looking up at him, her lips moist and slightly parted.

He shook his head. “It’s true. Otherwise, the Oklahoma Kid couldn’t have taken over, become the leader when he came in from the Territory.”

“You could be top gun again, Ringo, anywhere . . . with the support of the right woman. After all, it sounds like you do pretty well as an outlaw.”

Ringo laughed. “I don’t know about that. That last holdup turned into a real disaster. We’d just robbed the Fort Concho payroll when we rode into Bandera for some fun.”

Curiosity goaded her. “And the Texan was part of your gang?”

“Naw.” He shook his head, reached into his pocket for tobacco and papers. “We came into the saloon, see? The Kid got into a poker game with that Texan, and the Texan caught him cheating. Never saw anybody draw as fast as that Texan! Blew the Kid away from that table before the Kid’s gun hardly cleared leather.”

Amethyst really was puzzled. “If the Texan wasn’t part of your gang, how’d he end up with the money?”

Ringo made a wry face, rolled a smoke with an unsteady hand. “The payroll was in the Kid’s saddlebags. When the Texan ran outside after he outdrew the Kid, I reckon he realized the Kid’s pinto was the best horse at the hitchin’ rail. Anyway he took off on him fast as a deacon takin’ up a collection on Sunday!”

“So that’s how he got the pinto stallion,” she thought aloud with relief. She reached up, took the match from Ringo’s unsteady hand, and lit his smoke for him.

“Much obliged.” He nodded his thanks, took a deep draw. “We’ve been on the Texan’s trail ever since, tryin’ to get the payroll back.”

“Ringo, I like you,” Amethyst said confidentially, “but I’m afraid of them.” She shivered watching the pair by the campfire, hearing them snore.

“I boss this gang now that the Kid’s dead,” he said squaring his shoulders. “Don’t be afraid.”

She studied him, almost feeling a little sorry for the man. “I’ll bet you used to be the best gun in Texas.”

He smoked, staring off into the night. “Women,” he said bitterly, “women, cards, and whiskey do in more gunfighters than bullets. Yessir, women have been the ruin of many a man.”

“Who was she, Ringo?”

“Does it show that much?” He grinned, a little chagrined, knocked the long ash off the cigarette. “A girl at Miss Fancy’s in San Antone, a girl with hair the color of fire. She had big plans, Mona did, and I didn’t fit into them, not enough money. She wanted to be a real lady.”

Amethyst only half listened. She had to gain his confidence, keep him talking while she figured out what move to make. “And what ever became of her?”

“Dunno. I found myself staring into the bottom of an empty glass too many times thinkin’ about her, wondering where she went. Lost track of her in New Orleans. By then she was passin’ herself as French.”

Amethyst felt her mouth dropopen in surprise; then she shook her head. No, it was a coincidence; it couldn’t be.

“Mona was ambitious. No room for a cheap gunfighter in her plans. The fact I was crazy about her meant nothin’ to her.” He studied Amethyst as he smoked. “I’ll bet you wouldn’t be like that.”