Deadfall

CHARLEY SUNDAY'S TEXAS OUTFIT
DEADFALL

S
TEPHEN
L
ODGE

PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

P
ROLOGUE

Marshmallows were bubbling like lava, with tiny clumps dropping into the remains of a glowing charcoal fire, as the Pritchard family prepared their individual desserts—putting a cap to a wonderful Memorial Day backyard picnic.

Everyone giggled and laughed as the burned and gooey, sugar-laden globs were pulled from the straightened wire coat-hangers, then sandwiched between chocolate-covered graham crackers.

The entire family was there: Noel, the youngest; Caleb, the middle child; Josh, the oldest—the only teenager; their mom, Evie; and their great-grandfather, Hank. As for the children's father—he was the main reason they were celebrating.

“I'd like to say a few words about your father, if you don't mind,” said the old man, Hank.

Everything came to a stop while the members of the Pritchard family found places to sit—in folding chairs and at a redwood picnic table—before they gave the older man their full attention.

“Captain Henry E. Pritchard III . . . husband, father, and grandson to one of the members of this gathering, was lost over California's high desert a few years back, while test-flying a newer version of a United States top-secret reconnaissance airplane,” said Grampa Hank. “As you all know, that is the only information the government would release to us at the time.”

All around the neighborhood other families were also bowing their heads in remembrance of their own personal never-to-be-forgotten loved ones.

Hank's words about his grandson brought tears to everyone's eyes, especially Evie, mother of the honored man's three children. Hank summed it all up by asking Noel to lead them in The Lord's Prayer.

 

 

Later on, as darkness began to fall, Evie asked her late husband's grandfather if he would mind sharing with her and the children the story about his parents being abducted in a city along the Mexican border, then spirited away, leaving no trace. And how his personal experience of losing his parents—even though it was only for a short period of time—might compare with the feelings her children had about their own father's disappearance.

“That's the God's truth,” said Hank. “I was with my folks when it happened. I witnessed the whole thing.”

“Then tell us the story,” said Noel. “Will you, Grampa?”

“Yeah, Grampa Hank,” said Josh, “you never mentioned anything about your parents being abducted before.”

“If you were there, why weren't you abducted, too?” added Caleb.

“Well, since it's a holiday and all that,” said Hank, “I suppose you all won't mind staying up a little later than usual.”

Noel said, “School doesn't start until nine thirty for me, Grampa Hank. And since today was a holiday, it'll be a special school day honoring Memorial Day. Mommy already told me I could stay up later than usual tonight, if I wanted to.”

“Well, if that's the case,” said Hank, “I better get started because sometimes this story can be a long one . . . depending.”

“Depending on what?” asked the three children almost in unison.

“Depending on whether I want to make it a short one,” said the old man. “Now let me think a minute. Let's see how I want to start this thing off this time . . .”

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Eleven-year-old Henry Ellis Pritchard sat quietly between his parents in a hired, open-top carriage, as they traveled down Main Street in Brownsville, Texas.

He was dressed in his Sunday best—from his blue, four-in-hand tie, his suit coat and knickers, with their knee-high stockings, to his brand-new, lace-up, ankle-high shoes. His light brown hair, slicked backed when the journey began, was now blowing gently in the gulf breeze. His ever-present smile shone bright as always—just as his mother had taught him to do at all times.

Sitting across from the family was a well-dressed Mexican gentleman, a security officer employed by the man they were going to visit. The security officer's name was Jose “Roca” Fuerte—and he would smile at Henry Ellis every so often.

Henry Ellis studied the man. In Austin, where he came from, one seldom saw a Mexican anymore. But here in Brownsville—directly across the river from Matamoros, a thriving Mexican city of its own—they were plentiful. He'd seen a few Mexicans during his visits to his grandfather's the previous summer, when he stayed with him on his old ranch in Juanita, Texas. But Juanita was much closer to the international border than Austin.

Jose Roca Fuerte wore a large
sombrero
—not one of those with a very high crown, and extremely wide brim, that Henry Ellis had seen in one of his history books, but a much tamer version, made from beaver pelts, as most American-made hats were constructed. His once black, now going to white, mustache, had been trimmed neatly above his upper lip. And he wore his sideburns and hair—also white—quite long, to cover some smallpox scarring he had on his neck and both cheeks. Henry Ellis knew that was what it was because he'd seen the same scars on several of his classmates back in Austin.

Betty Jean, the boy's mother, held a bouquet of long-stem roses in her lap.

“I am glad you are enjoying the flowers, Mrs. Pritchard,” said Fuerte. “They were gathered from the personal gardens of Don Roberto.”

Henry Ellis watched as Fuerte spoke, the man's eyes shifting from one direction to another—always on the alert for trouble. At the same time the boy listened to the sounds of the border city—especially those made by the hooves of the two-horse matching team that pulled the carriage. The Mexican driver was taking them to the border bridge crossing at the far end of the well-traversed, cobblestone boulevard.

Other carriages, buggies, and freight wagons, plus men of all dress on horseback, packed the wide thoroughfare, moving in both directions, as the carriage made its way toward the gated, international boundary.

“Now, son,” said the boy's father, Kent, “I know you've been to Mexico with me several times before . . . and I know you've always enjoyed those outings we've had together below the border. I just want to remind you again that this trip isn't going to be just like it was on those other occasions. This visit is primarily for business reasons—though there will be a social side to it.

“As you already know,” he went on, “our family has been selected by my company to be the guests of Don Roberto Acosta y Castro . . . the owner of one of the major trading firms with which we do business. The Don is also a younger brother to the commanding general of the Mexican army. We will be staying at the Don's
hacienda
, on his
rancho
on the other side of Matamoros, Brownsville's sister city across the Rio Grande. Señor Fuerte has been assigned to accompany us for our protection. There are some people in Mexico, we've recently discovered, who would do us harm just because I work for a company that does business with Don Roberto.”

The boy looked again at the security man sitting across from him.

“Does the Don keep any horses on his
rancho
?” the boy asked.

“The Don?” said Fuerte. “I am sure that he does.
Sí
.”

“Now don't you let me catch you begging Don Roberto for a horseback ride, young man,” said his mother, Betty Jean, “or anything else. If you do, I'll paddle your little butt so hard you won't be able to sit down for all the time we're in Mexico, plus what it takes for us to get back home to Austin.”

“Sorry, Mother,” said Henry Ellis, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. “I'll try not to embarrass you if you try not to embarrass me. I'm almost twelve years old, Mother.”

“Don't you crack wise with me, young man,” said Betty Jean.

“He wasn't making a joke of it, darlin',” said Kent. “Henry Ellis will fit in just fine during our stay with Don Roberto.”

“I am sure that he will,” said Fuerte.

The boy's attention had been drawn to a small plaza up ahead where a freight wagon appeared to have broken down. Several men wearing colorful
ponchos
and large
sombreros
were attempting to remove a broken wheel, while the anxious mules balked at the imposition. Others had gathered around to observe.

The driver slowed the carriage as they prepared to pass the damaged wagon near the fountain in the center of the plaza.

“Señor Pritchard,” said Fuerte to Henry Ellis's father, “this is not a place for an accident . . . This is a place for an . . . ambush.”

“I knew we should have gone another way,” said Betty Jean.

“There is no other way,” said Fuerte.

He reached inside his waistcoat and pulled a small . 32-caliber, four-barrel pepperbox pocket gun, handing it to Kent, who seemed reluctant to take it. Fuerte turned to Betty Jean and the boy.

“You two must get down . . . at once,” he said.

Fuerte helped Betty Jean and Henry Ellis kneel down onto the floorboards of the carriage.

By then the plaza had filled with more curious onlookers. In Spanish, Fuerte told the driver that he should back the team up and find another route.

Fuerte finally shoved the small gun into Kent's hand and drew his own sidearm—a .44-caliber Smith & Wesson Russian model double-action revolver.

The two-horse team was urged to back up—pushing the rear end of the carriage into a two-wheel handcart that someone had purposely rolled into the vehicle's path.

Suddenly a large Mexican man in the street stepped onto the running board of the coach and pulled Fuerte out of the carriage, sending them both sprawling onto the cobblestones.

In the meantime the carriage driver was able to find an opening in the crowd. He whipped at the horses, moving the coach farther on up the street.

Still on the ground, Fuerte swung at the man with whom he was fighting, using his pistol as a club. The attacker's blood splattered onto several people nearby.

Fuerte turned to run after the carriage. Even so, the bloodied man reached out, grabbing for his boot.

Without hesitation, Fuerte whirled and fired his weapon point-blank at the man. The bullet found its target between the attacker's eyes.

Fuerte stumbled on, continuing his pursuit of the coach.

Up ahead in the carriage, the boy watched his father fire the small pepperbox pocket gun Fuerte had given him, twice—with both slugs hitting their mark. One of the attackers took a bullet to the shoulder, with the second projectile clipping the other man's earlobe. It was then the boy's father realized he only had two cartridges left, and that he wasn't going to do much damage with the small pistol he had against the number of men who were surrounding them. In moments, Henry Ellis's father was completely overpowered, face-to-face with the large number of armed Mexicans who were now climbing onto the running boards on each side of the carriage. Henry Ellis continued to watch as their driver was attacked by two men from each side and his throat slit. The driver's body was then dumped onto the cobblestones, where it fell like a rag doll. One of the ambushers took his place behind the reins.

Henry Ellis was watching all of this from the floorboards as his father continued to defend his mother and himself from the swarm of aggressors with his fists.

His father looked down and shouted to the boy:

“Forget about your mother and me for now, Henry Ellis. Just get out of here . . .
at once
. . . and please, my son . . . Trust no one!”

He reached over to the handle of the opposite door and opened it for the boy.

Henry Ellis jumped . . . right through the tangle of Mexican legs crowded together on the narrow running board.

The boy rolled several times on the cobblestones before he was able to sit up.

As the carriage carrying both his mother and father disappeared into the throngs of people, Henry Ellis could still see his father as he handed over the pepperbox pocket gun to one of the Mexican men who had been assaulting them.

A tear began to form in one of the boy's eyes. He blinked several times to shake it free . . . and when he could see clearly again, Roca Fuerte was standing over him, the smoking Smith & Wesson still in his hand.

“Come with me at once, Henry Ellis,” he said. “We must leave the city immediately. It is of no use for us to follow them. Those men appear only to want your father for now, not us. It is better that we report what has happened to Don Roberto as soon as we can.”

“What about the police?” said Henry Ellis. “Shouldn't we contact the police?”

“No
policía
,” replied Fuerte firmly. “We do not want the authorities involved. It is much better that we let Don Roberto handle this situation using his own militia.”

Henry Ellis jerked away from the security man. He turned immediately, then ran into the crowd, disappearing completely from Fuerte's sight.

His father's words,
Trust no one
, rang over and over in his ears.

 

 

Don Roberto Acosta y Castro was riding in from surveying another seventy-five thousand hectares of grazing land he had recently inherited from a deceased cousin. The newly acquired property was adjacent to his own estate, which was part of an old Spanish land grant shared by him and the rest of the Acosta family.

The Don galloped through the entrance gates leading to his
hacienda
. He was followed by his foreman and eight Acosta
vaqueros
.

As the assemblage reined up in front of the main house, Tomás, his number one houseman, came running down the steps holding a small envelope in his hand.

“Don Roberto,” he called out. “Something terrible has happened. A messenger was just here. He left this note for you. He said it was very important.”

When he reached Don Roberto, Tomás handed him the envelope. The Don took a few moments to open, then read the short message before turning to his foreman, Luis Hernandez.

“Luis,” he said, “this message is from Roca Fuerte. The Americans he was bringing to visit me have been abducted . . . and Roca thinks the Armendariz gang had something to do with it.”

“
Sí
, Don Roberto,” said Luis. “Shall I contact your brother in Veracruz?”

“No,” said Don Roberto. “Not yet. For now I would like to keep the army out of this. I think we should be able to handle it ourselves. I will send him a message when we know more about what is going on.”

“
Si, mi jefe
,” said the foreman.

“I want you to do whatever you can to find them, Luis. It is my responsibility to locate that American family and bring those who took part in their abduction to justice. Choose the best gunmen in my employ; they will know how to handle Armendariz and his people.”

“But where do we start looking, Don Roberto?” asked Hernandez. “This is a big country. Where do we start?”

“I will be with you, Luis, and I do not care where we start,” said Don Roberto. “And I also do not care about how many men we must kill to find them. Just as long as we find those Americans and bring them here to my
hacienda
.”

“I will gather up a few more men—”

“You will take the chosen members of my militia, plus all of my
vaqueros
, if need be,” said Don Roberto. “This is an embarrassment for me. And it will bring me a much larger humiliation if anything happens to that American family.”