Deadfall (10 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Having come across the long-standing Mexican settlement of Santiago de la Monclova earlier in the day, Rod, Kelly, and Henry Ellis had hidden themselves, their horses, and the two-wheeled cart behind some tall cactus outside the old municipality's adobe walls. They were waiting for the sun to set before entering the town. They were hoping to find someone who would sell them fresh meat for the puppy, oats for the horses, and maybe a warm meal for themselves.

Come nightfall, they left two of the horses hidden in some heavy overgrowth, then they took the boy's horse and the cart and walked on foot. The boy carried the puppy in his arms. They were all supposed to stay together and keep their eyes open for anything or anyone who looked suspicious.

By the time the three of them had made it through the maze of small adobe structures that made up the outer city, each one with its own particular sounds and smells, they found they were about to enter the center of the settlement. They could see there was a dance in progress a few blocks away in the main plaza.

Within moments, Rod found a small side street he assumed would lead them around the main square. He figured the route would most likely take them through several dark alleyways, so they could avoid the main section of the city where families liked to stroll.

It was when he, Kelly, and Henry Ellis—with the puppy still in his arms—were leading the boy's horse and cart through one of those poorly lit passageways that the boy saw the quick movement of a shadowy figure out of the corner of his eye. The form was dark and shaped like a human being. Whoever it was had obviously been observing the three of them before slinking around a sharp corner where they had disappeared completely.

“Did you two see that?” Henry Ellis whispered loudly to Rod and Kelly.

They both nodded. They had also seen the humanlike figure ahead of them.

All three knew something wasn't quite right when they could hear no footsteps fading into the distance. Whoever it had been had stopped close by and was waiting for them to follow—waiting for one of them to round the corner in pursuit.

“No,” whispered Rod to the others. “No
.
We will not fall for some robber's trickery and be found the next day with our money gone and our throats slit.”

As quietly as they could, Rod, Kelly, and Henry Ellis began to backtrack. They turned the horse and cart around quietly, then went in the opposite direction until they had completely circled the small block of adobe buildings. They were again on the same street they had been on before. Only now, they were walking down the dusty lane from the reverse direction, putting them behind the waiting thief.

Rod stopped abruptly, holding his breath. He could see the dark figure—whoever it was—hunkered down in the shadows, waiting there in the darkness for them.

The mysterious figure wore a large floppy-brimmed hat and a cape of some kind.
Quite possibly,
thought Rod,
because this is Mexico, it might even be a
serape.

Slowly, silently, Rod motioned for Kelly and Henry Ellis to stay where they were.

“What do you think you're going to do?” whispered Kelly.

“I'm going to go and get that bastard,” Rod answered.

“It's too dangerous, Rod, I can't let you do that,” she whispered again.

“I can help,” cut in Henry Ellis. “I can walk on ahead of you and maybe I can draw his attention away, so you—”

“No,” said Kelly. “I don't want anything to happen to either one of you.”

Rod put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

“I thank you for offering, Henry Ellis, but I have to do this alone.”

He turned to his wife.

“Sorry, Kelly,” he said, “but this is just the way it has to be.”

Rod undid the leather flap on his army-issue holster. He drew his artillery-model, single-action, army Colt .45—the pistol he had been issued when he'd joined the Rough Riders. He'd had quite a few learning sessions with guns during his short training period, especially with revolvers—and he knew how to shoot.

He wasn't worried at all about his own safety when he began his lone advance down the street toward the crouching figure.

What Rod didn't know about was the other one—the partner in crime—until that cohort had walloped him good with a leather-covered piece of lead. The rap on the head knocked him senseless but not all the way unconscious. He fell to the ground.

He lay still on the sandy street, feeling the warmth of his own blood as it trickled down the side of his neck, then onto the ground beside his right ear, which had planted itself in the sand next to a hitching post. He felt the rough hands of his assailant as the robber rolled him over and then rummaged through his pockets for whatever it was the thief thought necessary to bludgeon him for.

He could also smell the anxiety oozing from the man's pores plus the odor of the mescal the man had recently consumed. The robber bent lower to check under Rod's boot tops, looking for anything he thought the outsider might have hidden there.

All the man found was Rod's money pouch, with the remainder of his last month's earnings inside.

Six dollars
, Rod thought to himself, as he lay there in the sand.
This sonofabitch wants to kill me for six lousy dollars
. He heard the man swear to himself as he flung the empty money holder into the night. Then Rod heard the sound of a razor-sharp blade being drawn from a leather sheath. He blinked, trying to open his eyes. When he did, he saw the blur of the man's bulk hovering over him with a hand raised. In it, the attacker held a knife. The blade flashed its deadly glint, a reflection of the moon overhead.

Rod tried to move. He couldn't. All of his strength had been drained by the solid whack he had taken to the back of his head. He closed his eyes, awaiting his forthcoming demise. He knew for sure his life was moments from ending. But before he could think of the proper words to put into prayer . . .

“No, Manolito, no.”

It was a woman's voice. “We cannot kill him now,” the voice continued in its heavy Spanish accent. “
El j
e
f
e would have us both hanged if you did. We are here for another purpose. I have subdued the woman and the boy. It is the boy we want . . . they are both tied up. We will wait until Colonel Armendariz has had a chance to see the boy . . . then he will probably order us to kill these other two.”

Rod opened his eyes, keeping them in a tight squint. He peered between his half-open lids, hoping the two thieves would still take him for unconscious. The voice belonged to the person he had originally been pursuing, the one with the floppy hat and
serape
he had mistaken for a cape. And she was female.

Rod continued to watch the two as they argued in whispers above him. The man who'd almost killed him was still in shadow, but Rod could see the woman's face every now and then as a single ray of light cast from an oil lamp in a nearby window bounced across her brow. She was young, and she was beautiful . . . and she was the enemy.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Holliday and Feather Martin had been in the saddle for nearly two days and had yet to come across another human being. Roscoe, driving the chuckwagon, had kept up with his two companions as best he could.

The two men on horseback were now dismounting several yards from the open mouth of a large cavern. Roscoe reined the wagon up beside them. A few minutes earlier, Roscoe had recommended the threesome might use the cave for shelter if indeed the heavy black clouds overhead decided to open up and deposit their store of water onto the open desert below.

The wind had picked up a half hour earlier, causing the clouds to close in around them. And now, as they spurred their mounts and drove the wagon into the shelter of the cave's opening, the rain began to fall.

What had begun with light sprinkles minutes earlier turned into a heavy downpour by the time the three men had unsaddled their horses and unhitched the mule team quite a few yards inside the cave's mouth.

They built a little campfire with wood gathered along the way during dryer weather, a habit Roscoe had acquired years ago when he could see that a storm was approaching.

They spread their bedrolls by the fire. A wide overhang above the cavern's mouth kept any dampness from reaching them, even when the wind was blowing. They had situated themselves deep enough inside the cavern to also shelter them from some of the sound of the storm's fury.

It wasn't too long before Roscoe had a pot of coffee boiling. He sat down beside Holliday with two cups, next to the wagon, handing one cup to the old trick-shooting expert. They sipped and talked as they reminisced about their journey.

“I don't believe this trail we're on will ever produce any fleeing bandits,” said the quick-draw artist.

“I'm with you, Holliday,” said Roscoe. “I'd bet all the money I ever earned in my lifetime that no human being has ever been where we are now. Look around,” he added.

Holliday took a sweeping glance at the steep, curving rock walls that surrounded them. At one point he could see Feather digging at something farther on back in the cave.

“Hey, Feather,” he called out, “come on back here . . . get yourself a cup a' steamin'-hot Arbuckle's. It'll warm you up—take the rattle out a' yer bones.”

“I'll be there in a minute,” Feather called back, his voice echoing. “Right now I think I mighta found something that could be of interest to all of us.”

Roscoe reached over with the coffeepot and topped off Holliday's cup.

“Here ya go, Holliday,” he said. “Don't let ol' Feather Martin's stubbornness keep you from relaxin'.”

Holliday blew on the newly poured coffee in the tin cup, then he took a sip.

“I sure hope this rain lets up by mornin',” he said. “I'd hate for us to get stuck here for another day and be late for our rendezvous with Charley and the others at that Mexican fort.”

An object, made of partially rusted metal, landed in the sand between the two men's feet.

“What's that?” said Roscoe.

After a closer look, it became clear that the thing was an old Spanish helmet—similar to those worn by the early Conquistadores.

Feather was walking away, but he called out again as he reached his position behind the two men.

“There's more back here that goes with that metal hat, fellers,” his voice echoed. “I found some bones, too.”

 

 

Sergeant Stone had figured all along that the Negro who dressed as an Indian must be taking them to a small encampment, or maybe an actual Indian village of some sort. Mitchell Pennell, on the other hand, had disagreed—before they had been forced to ride up closer to Billy July—arguing that they were being taken to some remote location. Pennell felt sure the strange man who had apprehended them was going to steal all of their earthly possessions before he shotgunned them both and strung up their naked bodies for the Mexican vultures to devour.

“I hear man-eating predators can strip a dead man's carcass down to a bare skeleton before the devil's shadow lengthens by a quarter of an inch,” Pennell whispered to the sergeant. But his words turned out to be contrary to fact because to their surprise Billy July led them through a high-walled narrow entrance formed by layered sandstone, then on into a sheltered passageway. Two silhouetted sentries were posted on either side, high above them, both with large-caliber rifles held at the ready across their chests.

“Where in the Sam Hill is he taking us?” whispered Pennell.

Stone hushed the man with a flick of his eyes; he could see where they were being led.

The slender corridor through which the three were riding opened up into a box canyon—a verdant oasis—a sanctuary with a pleasing cluster of desert vegetation growing from lush, fertile soil. Presumably all this was being fed by an underground stream.

The submerged watercourse briefly popped to the surface near the trunks of several cottonwood trees to form a comforting blue pool.

A group of dark-skinned women and children could be seen wading at the water's edge. Some of the women were doing laundry farther down. They laughed and carried on, beating the wet clothing against a series of flat rocks, unaware of Billy July and his two captives as they arrived.

The prisoners were led past the pool to a spindly, waist-high tree stump near a small hut built from rocks and palm fronds. They were instructed to dismount and tie off their horses and the burro. After they had done that, Billy July indicated they should follow him once again.

He escorted the two strangers over to the meager shelter, pointing out that they should stay outside while he entered the structure. He disappeared through a narrow flap of sewn animal skins, serving as a door.

When it appeared as if they were alone for a moment, Pennell leaned over to Stone. He asked softly, “What do you think this place might be?”

The sergeant shrugged. “Looks to me like an outpost of some sort,” he answered in a hoarse whisper. His eyes whipped back and forth, checking to see if they were being watched. “They look to be black, African people like me,” he continued. “Except for the way they're dressed. They gotta be Seminole-Negroes.”

Most of the camp's inhabitants who were visible wore various Indian attire, mixed together with other worn and tattered pieces of cast-off clothing they had procured somewhere or another.

“They sure do look different,” said Pennell, scratching his ear with one of his bound hands. “Kinda like In-dins. Kinda like you,” he concluded.

There was movement within the hut. Stone motioned for Pennell to hush. The animal-hide flap was pushed aside and Billy July ducked out through the tiny opening. He was followed by a smaller Negro man who was also dressed in elaborate Indian regalia. They stopped in front of Sergeant Stone and Mitch Pennell, scrutinizing, looking the two Americans up and down.

“This is our leader, John Thomas Bodie,” said Billy July. “He would like to ask you both a few questions.”

Sergeant Stone nodded. “We'll do our best to oblige, sir,” he answered.

The smaller man stepped in closer; he looked the sergeant directly in the eye. “Why does a black man ride with a white man?” he wanted to know.

The sergeant shrugged.

“He's my partner,” was his sincere answer. “The two of us have been scouting a trail together.”

Tobias Stone, being an honest man, could never lie.

“Why do you scout a trail in Mexico?” the chief asked. “Are you not both from the United States?”

Stone nodded again.

“We are here to do a job,” he said. “There are others with us who do the same. And, yes,” he went on, “we do come from across the border. We come from Texas, and we are—”

There was an elated shriek from inside the hut, and the flap was pushed aside with passion. Elisabeth Rogers, looking quite weary, very dirty, and completely worn out, stepped out into the sunlight.

“Texas?” she said. “Did I hear someone say they were from Texas?”

 

 

The storm that had sent Roscoe, Holliday, and Feather into the shelter of the cave had moved on, eventually settling over the desert floor some fourteen and a half miles northwest of the cavern, directly above what was usually a dry and dusty Mexican village but for the rain.

On this day it was neither dry nor dusty. Every particle of dust on the main street had been turned into a soggy, watery muck.

It was into this pitiable rural hamlet that Charley Sunday and his companion, Roca Fuerte, found themselves riding after a grueling two days in the Mexican wilderness.

The hard rain had been coming down steady for several hours. Charley and Fuerte, buttoned up securely in their meager jackets, then covered even more by oilskin slickers, hunkered low under their dripping hats, which they had both pulled down over their ears to keep the harsh wind from blowing them away. They were finding the welcome they had thought they might get from the citizenry of the first town they were encountering to be not all that friendly. Dark, fearful eyes peered out suspiciously from dreary windows and gloomy door frames, as the two ex-lawmen—one American, one Mexican—sloshed across the muddy village square.

More than a few Mexican army wagons, plus several canvas-covered military ambulances, had been unhitched and left out in the storm along the side of the street.

More than likely
, thought Charley,
the pulling-livestock is being kept in some covered corral or barn nearby, out of the weather . . . out of sight.

Both men knew this was a sign that there were federal troops somewhere close by. But right then, no human activity could be observed by either one of them.

The two dismounted in front of a sagging
cantina
, located among an irregular row of adobe storefronts lining the plaza. They faced a large Catholic church across the way. The two men tied off their horses before stepping under the
cantina
's leaking porch roof to gather their thoughts.

The downpour continued to pound everything around them. It was very cold. Both men could see their breath as it steamed in the icy air.

“It just might be they have that featherbed you've been hoping for somewhere in this village, Señor Charley,” said Fuerte with a twinkle.

Charley grimaced. He looked up as more lightning flashed overhead. “If they do, Roca,” he answered through the deafening rumble of thunder that followed, “I suspect it's as foul smelling as this saloon we're standing in front of.”

Fuerte chuckled. “Is a bad smell going to bother you too much if I take you on inside this
cantina
and buy you a shot of whiskey . . . and get us out of this storm for a few minutes?”

“Of course not, Roca,” said Charley. “Nothing smells so bad that I'd turn down a friendly drink.”

Fuerte clasped his friend by the shoulder, urging him toward the door. A harsh blast of wind helped the two along, pushing them toward the entrance.

Four blanketed Mexicans were huddled beside a small table in one corner of the cold and damp room. They were playing a game of dice, bouncing the ivories off the lower wall nearby. Their backs were to the solid double-doors that shielded the bat-wings inside. One of the door handles turned, and the rain-swept wind ushered in the two storm-drenched figures. Charley Sunday and Roca Fuerte stopped just inside, reaching for the door behind them.

Three drunken federal soldiers laughed their way past the two men, moving out into the storm, headed back to where they were quartered.

Once the soldiers' voices were drowned out by the clatter of the rain on the building's tin roof, the two men closed the door. They shook off, shedding an abundance of rainwater onto the once sleek, but now cracked, black-and-white-tiled floor.

There were empty tin cans, glass pitchers, and numerous pots and pans spread out on the floor around the room. They had been put there as receptacles to catch the rainwater that dripped from various leaks in the ceiling above.

Charley removed his hat and slapped it against his knee, knocking off even more water. “Whoooeee,” he exclaimed, once again shaking his entire body like a dog after a cold swim. “C'mon, Roca,” he said, “let's get us that belly warmer before it gets any colder.”

“Or wetter,” added Fuerte, whacking some of the accumulated dampness from his own saturated headgear.

The two men moved to the small bar, an antiquated piece of furniture, more than likely a personal possession of whoever owned the little
cantina
.

An old European clock had been affixed to the wall above the back-bar; its Roman numerals told the two newcomers it was three thirteen in the afternoon.

Fuerte rapped on the counter, glancing around for any sign of a bartender. Charley checked the cracked and dirty mirror's reflection, keeping his eyes on the four Mexicans behind them beside the table in the corner. They were still throwing the dice and talking among themselves in Spanish, showing no interest at all in the new arrivals.

A sleepy face raised itself from behind the bar counter, startling both men. A month-old
Ciadad Acuña
newspaper fell away from the man's face and onto the bar top beside Charley's arm. The bartender flashed a lopsided golden smile for a welcome.

“
Buenas tardes
,” he said, a greeting to them both.

“
Dos
whiskeys,” said Fuerte. He looked the man square in the eye. He did that with all men he met for the first time.

The bartender nodded. “
Dos
whisk-eeys,” he repeated, trying to mimic Fuerte's gruff manor. He got a cold stare in return. He turned away and began preparing the drinks.