Bittner, Rosanne (5 page)

Ken
nodded, squeezing his hand. "Hope so."

John
turned his horse and rode south, thinking maybe he
was
a little bit
crazy. He was headed toward the distinct possibility of death, just to get
another look at some little redheaded woman who probably wasn't worth her
weight in salt.

The
land held a breathless quiet, so still it almost hurt a man's ears. But John's
own keen ears were picking up a sound. He squinted, straining to listen. This
was a land of tortuous canyons and grotesque rocks, and in between was nothing
but a barren loneliness. Sometimes the only noise was the white-hot sun that
seemed to scream down on a man's head and shoulders.

He
removed his cracked-leather hat and wiped sweat from his brow, then replaced
the hat and dismounted, tying his horse to a scrubby bush that seemed rooted
solid enough to hold the animal for a time. The golden palomino bent its head
to graze on a meager stand of grass long dried up.

John
was proud of his horse. Palominos were rare in these parts, and this fine
specimen had cost him plenty. He had paid for it with reward money a wealthy
railroad man had given him for being saved from Apaches a couple years back.
Too bad, he thought, that the whole state of Texas couldn't even come up with
enough money to provide their Rangers with horses and guns. A Ranger had to pay
for all his own supplies. Still, with that reward money, he had more than he
needed, since he had no family to provide for, owned no property other than his
horse and gear. He had a good amount still in the bank in El Paso.

Sometimes
he wondered why in hell he didn't settle, why he kept at this rather thankless
and very dangerous job. For the satisfaction of killing men who deserve it, he
answered himself. This work gave him a way to vent all the anger that kept
boiling up inside. Besides, being a Texas Ranger was something that brought him
some little bit of respect, and at the same time it left him with almost total
freedom. That was what he needed more than anything. He wasn't going to work
for some other man, having to be in one place every day, all day, taking
orders. With the rangers he still had to take orders, but once he was out on
his own, he seldom obeyed them. And he didn't work for just one man. He worked
for the whole state of Texas.

Trouble
was, not everything he did was something he would normally be assigned... like
riding across the border into Mexico to track a little redheaded woman. Rangers
weren't supposed to go into Mexico, but they did it all the time, and he was
probably the worst offender. He felt lucky that so far he had not had a run-in
with Apache renegades, who were scattered all over this desolate country. They
could be anywhere. Sometimes they seemed to just rise up out of the ground
unexpectedly.

He
crouched to listen, noticing how worn and battered his leather boots were. He
supposed he should get himself another pair sometime, but old, beat-up boots
were so much more comfortable than stiff new ones. His denim pants were caked
with dust, and he reckoned a bath would feel damn good right now, but a man
didn't bother to bathe when he had to be out in this kind of sun.

There
it was again, very faint, but he definitely heard voices. They were probably in
a canyon somewhere to the south, down where he couldn't see them. He had
followed tracks for four days now, angry with himself for making a wrong choice
when the tracks split up a few miles south of the McDowell ranch, six or eight
men going in one direction, several more in another with the stolen cattle and
horses. It was the oldest trick in the book, and even experienced trackers like
himself had to simply make a wild guess which way to go when led in two
directions. He'd followed the tracks of those who had taken the cattle and
horses. Eventually those tracks circled around until he came to a place where
they split up yet again. It looked as though someone had met this second group
and had taken the cattle and horses off with them.

They
had set this up good. Already they had unloaded most of the stolen stock, but
to whom? It irked him that he didn't have time to follow that trail and find
out. It could lead to whoever had been behind a rash of cattle thefts over the
past several months. Again he thought about Jim Caldwell, but just like Ken had
said, it seemed preposterous that such a man would be involved in something
like rustling. For now, there was no hope of finding out. By the time he was
able to follow, those tracks would be washed or blown away. It was more
important now to find Tess Carey, and the only way to do that was to stick with
the original tracks, which had gone on south. That was the direction, he was
sure, they would take the woman— to Mexico.

So
far this second set of tracks had not met up with the original group, but he
was betting they would. He was angry with himself for not following the tracks
of the first group after they split up. Now if he could just catch up with this
second bunch, maybe he could get some valuable information that would help him
rescue the woman; and if he could keep them apart, that meant fewer men to
contend with once he did reach the woman.

He
waited, making sure from which direction the voices came, then untied his horse
and remounted and kicked his horse into a gentle lope. He had to keep this a
surprise. If he rode too hard, someone up ahead might feel the approaching
hooves. Comanche could see and feel and smell man or horse for miles sometimes;
but, by God, so could he, and that was how he usually managed to outsmart them.

He
realized he enjoyed the challenge. Maybe it was the warrior blood that flowed
in his veins. After all, his grandmother was sister to Red Eagle, a respected
and often feared Lakota warrior. And a true warrior liked nothing better than
to prove himself in battle. He supposed if he'd been raised among the Sioux, he
would be riding with them right now against the thousands of soldiers who'd
been sent West to "clean up" those who still refused to go live on
reservations. He supposed he ought to go try to find some of his relatives, but
he was far removed from that world. Texas was mostly all he'd known since he
was fourteen and had fled here from Missouri with his mother after killing the
man who'd tried to rape her.

God
knew there sure weren't any Sioux in Texas, just Comanche and Apache, and it
was hard to tell which was the meanest. He went another mile or so, then
dismounted again, taking his canteen from the saddle horn and removing his hat.
"I promise you, boy, that I'll find you some good stream water soon as I'm
finished with what I have to do." He poured some water into his hat and
held it out for his horse to drink. This was miserable country for man and
animal alike. The only things that really belonged out here were the snakes and
lizards. "Won't be long now, boy." He thought how easily a man could
go crazy in these parts if he didn't at least have his horse to talk to. He
took a glance behind him, wondering if Ken intended to try to follow him. It
wouldn't surprise him any.

He
poured a little water on top of his head, then took a short swallow and
recapped the canteen and hooked it back on his gear. He led his horse to a
sorry-looking mesquite tree, the only thing that might give the animal a little
shade. There was some scrubby grass underneath, certainly not enough to feed a
horse for even part of a day, but it would have to do. He would simply have to
get this done with as fast as possible. No warning. No mercy.

He
tied his horse, using a rope instead of the reins so the animal would have
freedom to move around. He took an ammunition belt from where it hung around
his saddle horn and slung it around his shoulder, then did the same with a
second ammunition belt, so that they draped crosswise over his chest. A man
couldn't take any chances. If he got himself pinned down, he would need all the
ammunition he could manage to bring along. He checked his six-gun to be sure it
was fully loaded, then took his Winchester lever-action 44.40 rifle from its
boot and checked it, too. He left a sawed-off shotgun in its leather case on
the horse and made off in the direction, he was sure, of the voices. He could
actually smell horse dung now, knew he was close.

He
made his way over crusted, rock-strewn ground, sent a lizard scurrying, felt
the sun's heat on his shoulders. He thought about that red-haired woman as he
followed tracks and scent. This would have to be miserable country for someone
with such fair skin. The area back where her ranch was wasn't any easier on
skin like that. In fact, there were few places in all of Texas where someone
with red hair and freckles ought to go without something to shade them from the
sun. Why in hell people like that came to places like this he would never
understand. Didn't they ever wonder why God put the Indians and Mexicans here
and not the white man? But the whites kept coming, risking their lives against
the elements and the Indians who lived on this land, just to say that
they
owned
it instead.

He
heard laughter now. He crouched behind a boulder, listened intently. He heard
no sound of a woman. He could tell now that the voices came from some kind of
canyon, since the louder voices echoed. He peered around the boulder, and all
that lay ahead was wide-open, flat desert— deceiving. Out here the land could
just drop off in a sheer wall with no notice. Sometimes a man could not even
see the drop-off until he was right on its edge. He made a quick dash for some
scraggly brush up ahead, lay flat behind it when he reached it, then wriggled
past it.

Now,
finally, he could see the gap, could see the other side. He wondered how the
land had got this way. Maybe an earthquake had simply split the earth here,
leaving both sides in their original flat state. He removed his hat and
slithered to the edge, peering down to see men camped below. There was a stream
down there, and the shadows of the canyon walls provided enough shelter from
the sun to keep water and grass from drying up. These men knew the country
well—must have known about this place.

He
studied the camp—saw no woman, just as he suspected. This bunch would ride to
catch up with the first ones who had gone on ahead. The woman would be with
them. If he could get rid of these men, the job ahead would be easier.

He
was surprised at the apparent total confidence of the men below that no one
would find them here, or perhaps just that no one would even follow them into
Mexico. They damn well knew the United States Army wouldn't come here. They
evidently figured there was nothing to worry about, since they had posted no
lookouts and were casually eating and drinking as though they had not a care in
the world.

"You'll
find out different," he whispered.

They
were sitting targets. Unbelievable. God must want him to find that redheaded
woman with no trouble, or He wouldn't be making this so easy for him. But then
maybe it was simple luck. After all, if there
was
a God, He sure
wouldn't be paying any attention to John Hawkins.

He
pulled away from the edge. There were four of them down there. His aim had to
be just right. After the first shot they would scatter and it would be harder
to hit them. He couldn't let even one of them get away, or whoever escaped
would ride ahead and warn the others. They might kill the woman before he
reached them, just to be mean. God only knew what they were doing to her now.
Maybe by the time he did reach her she'd be better off dead anyway.

He
used his elbows to pull himself, on his belly, back to the edge of the canyon.
He could see the pathway down, just to his left. It was nothing more than a
precarious, rocky trail over which only one horse could fit at a time. It was
their only way out, and if they tried it, he could pick them off easily. Fate and
their own stupidity were both on his side today!

He
rested his left elbow on a flat rock, took a look at the sun. He had to be
careful it didn't throw a flash of light on his rifle barrel, creating a glint
they might see. He took careful aim, slow, steady. He squeezed the trigger, and
as soon as he heard the sharp report near his ear, one of the men went down. It
was then he heard a scream to his right.

He
rolled to his left side just in time to avoid a hatchet landing between his
shoulder blades. Instead, it rang against the flat rock, and he got off a
second shot, opening a hole in the Comanche's throat. His would-be assailant
staggered sideways and went hurtling down the canyon wall.

Damn!
There was a lookout!
John
hurriedly scrambled back to the edge of the wall. The other three men below had
scattered, naturally. If not for the one who had attacked him, he could have
shot at least one more before they had a chance to realize what was happening.
Now he would have to go down after them. If he tried to wait them out, it could
take a week or two. Just as with the rustlers he and Ken had taken with the
dynamite, he didn't like waiting. Men like that didn't deserve a chance anyway.

Rocks
and gravel slid and scattered ahead of him as he deftly zigzagged down the
narrow pathway, realizing that now he would be a target. He heard the ping of
bullets landing against rocks all around him, but he figured if he moved
swiftly and ducked and darted around enough, he would be a difficult target. He
wondered where in hell the lookout had been hiding. Apparently the man had not
even noticed him until he heard that first rifle shot.