Deadfall (6 page)

The boy moved through the little group, then past his grandfather, who still had his large revolver pointed at Fuerte. He stopped, facing the man.

“I thought you were one of them,” said the boy. “But you wouldn't be here now if you were.”

“The man who hired me has communicated with the man who runs your father's company,” said Fuerte to the boy. “When he mentioned that your grandfather was the famous Texas Ranger, Charley Sunday, I knew that must have been where you went.”

“And if I'd known I was famous,” said Charley, moving over to Fuerte and Henry Ellis, “I'd have found another way to approach Brownsville.”

With that, Charley uncocked his pistol.

Both men broke into laughter, throwing their arms around one another.

“Roca Fuerte, you old bushwhacker,” said Charley.

“Charley Sunday,
mi amigo
,” said Fuerte.

“Do you two know each other?” asked Henry Ellis, who was still standing nearby, confused.

“You bet we do,” said Charley. “When I was a Ranger and Señor Fuerte worked for the Guardia Rural, the
Rurales
. . . for the Mexican government, mind you . . . I depended on him for information about what was going on . . . or about to go on . . . along the river. Both sides of the river. But that was a long time ago, Roca.”

“
Sí
,” said Fuerte, “a very long time ago.”

“My grandson tells me you wanted to take him some place after he jumped from the carriage,” said Charley.

“All I wanted to do was get him away from those who wanted to do him harm,” said Fuerte. “Obviously he had the same idea, but he chose his own direction. But now he has brought you back with him . . . and by the size of your party, I surmise you are expecting to participate in one very big
shoot-out
.”

“Some of the
old-timers
where I come from call that a Texas fandango,” said Charley.

“
Sí
,” Fuerte continued. “I am familiar with that expression.”

A shot rang out—the single bullet ricocheted off the bell of a nearby locomotive, producing an eerie retort.

Everyone drew their weapons, including Charley and Fuerte. But whoever had fired the shot had already disappeared into the night. The sound of galloping hoofbeats faded into the distance.

“A warning shot?” asked Charley.

“A coward's shot,” said Fuerte. “He was probably told to kill one or more of us if he could . . . but he either missed or lost his nerve at the final moment.”

“Well,” said Charley, “at least they know we're here now.”

“I am sure they knew you would be coming after them before they attacked your family,” said Fuerte.

“Would that mean they let Henry Ellis get away on purpose?”

“Not necessarily, Señor Charley,” said Fuerte. “Perhaps they were going to send you a ransom note . . . but when the boy escaped, they knew he would go directly to you.”

“Are you thinking they're interested in me instead, and all this abduction stuff was just a ruse to get me off my ranch and down here to Mexico?” said Charley.

“Don't flatter yourself,
mi amigo
. They want you here in Mexico because it is easier to keep an eye on you if you are in Mexico. We both know we are all under surveillance as we speak.”

“The gunshot proved that, don't you think?” said Charley.

“
Sí
,” said Fuerte. “The gunshot proved someone knows you are here.”

“Do ya think it's still safe for us ta camp here for a few hours?” said Roscoe, who had moved in beside the two.

“Just as safe as we were before that gunshot,” said Fuerte. “Wherever we go they will know where we are. We may as well bed down right here like we had planned to earlier. Just post another guard or two.”

“Besides, we'll be long gone before the sun rises,” said Charley.

“With that I must agree,” said Fuerte.

“Pennell, Roscoe, and Sergeant Stone'll take first watch for an hour. Rod, Fuerte, Holliday,” said Charley, “you three are on second watch. After that, it'll be time to get moving anyway.”

 

 

Henry Ellis slept uncomfortably during the first hour, knowing that his grandfather and his friends had been in Brownsville for only a short time before someone had taken a shot at them.

The boy would later tell his grandfather it hadn't been that long after the second watch had begun that he had first heard the noises.

It sounds like an animal
, was his first reaction, though by the next time, it sounded more like a human child whimpering to him.

The boy slipped out of his bedroll and stood up. Everyone else appeared to be sleeping soundly, except for the three men on guard duty. That trio had taken up positions with two of them at the east end of the tiny camp while Holliday stood by the chuckwagon, facing south. Their backs were all to Henry Ellis.

There it was—that whimpering again.
Someone could really be hurt or dying
, thought the boy.
Maybe I ought to go and see if I can help.

Henry Ellis cocked his head until he heard the soft whining one more time, then he turned and started off slowly into the darkness in search of whom, or whatever, it was making that sound.

 

 

Time had passed quickly yet Charley awoke from his deep sleep as if he had gotten a full eight hours. He checked his gold pocket watch, which he had placed on the portion of his bedroll he wasn't using—the Roman numerals told him it was 3:47 in the morning. He sat up, then he nudged Roscoe who was sleeping beside him.

When Roscoe was half-awake, Charley spoke to him in a rough whisper.

“'Bout time to put the coffee on, Roscoe,” said Charley. “I'll wake the others as soon as I get my boots on.”

Within fifteen minutes the entire outfit was dressed and ready. They were standing around complaining about the cold coffee left over from the night before. Those had been Charley's orders—he'd asked Roscoe to find a well-hidden location between the empty cattle and passenger cars, where he could boil up more coffee than usual. The steaming liquid was then poured into several extra cooking pots to be used when the outfit woke up in the wee hours. This was done in order to keep the camp a cold one.

When the horses had been fed and saddled, and all were aboard their mounts, and just before Charley gave the signal to move out, he sensed something was wrong.

“Where's Henry Ellis?” he called out. “Where has my grandson run off to now?”

There was some commotion near the rear of the column. Henry Ellis rode to the front to join his grandfather.

“Where have you been, son?” asked Charley. “We darn near left without you.”

Henry Ellis looked up, smiling.

“I heard some noise in the night while I was trying to sleep,” he told his grandfather. “I didn't go far . . . just far enough to find this.”

He reached behind and opened the buckled strap on his left saddlebag.

Charley glanced over.

The wet nose and glistening brown eyes of a mongrel puppy's face pushed itself up from under the open flap. The young dog looked over at Charley.

“Why, I'll be,” said Charley. “A pup.”

“I've already given him a name, Grampa,” said the boy. “I call him Buster Number Two.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

 

“Henry Ellis found a puppy to replace old Buster. Isn't that neat?” said Noel.

“Only I wouldn't have called him Buster Number Two,” said Caleb. “I'd have called him Blackie, or Spot . . . you know, after whatever color his coat was.”

“Well,” said Hank, “Buster Number Two seemed like the right thing to call him at the time. The main reason was that Charley had just lost Buster number one. I would imagine that Henry Ellis was thinking of how sad his grampa must have felt over losing the old Buster, and that's why he named the puppy Buster Number Two.”

“Can I have another root beer, Mom?” called out Josh, the older one.

“They're in the ice chest, sweetheart,” said Evie. “Who was your servant last year?”

Grumbling, Josh got to his feet and stumbled over to the ice chest. He rummaged through the slush until he found his root beer, then he brushed off the melting ice that was still clinging to the can. “Where'd you put the opener, Caleb,” he hollered.

“I didn't use it last,” said Caleb. “Grampa Hank did.”

Hank held out the rusty old bottle opener, and Josh took it from him.

“Thanks, Grampa Hank,” he said as he put a V-shaped hole near the lip of his soft drink can with a single flick of the wrist.

“I'll be needing that opener back, son,” said Hank. “It's my personal opener. Grampa Charley gave it to me when I turned twenty-one. He said a man . . . especially a Texas man . . . had always better have his own church key.”

“Is that what they called one of those things back then, Grampa?” asked Noel.

“People still call it a church key today,” said Caleb, moving over to the ice chest for his own can of soda.

Hank lent him the opener so he could expose the contents of his container. Caleb opened the can, then handed the opener back to his great-grandfather.

“You can open both cans and bottles with my opener,” said Hank. “Look at both ends . . . one for cans, one for bottle caps.”

“I bought one of those new pop-tab cola cans the other day,” said Josh. “It was real cool. You pull the attached tab off the top, and the opening you drink from is right there on top of the container for you. I hear that pretty soon they're going to have bottle caps you can open with your thumb, too.”

“I'd like to see that,” said Hank.

“Plus, screw-off caps,” said Evie, the children's mother. “They're making things so easy for us these days, I wouldn't be surprised if they came up with an easy-opening ketchup bottle next. One that you didn't have to pound on the bottom to get the last drop out.”

“How about if they made a ketchup bottle out of plastic, and all you had to do was squeeze it instead of having to shake it until your ears fell off,” said Josh.

“Toss me one of those soda cans while you're over there, will you, Caleb?” said Hank.

“What flavor do you want, Grampa?” asked the boy.

“Doesn't matter,” answered Hank. “But if there's a cream soda in there, I'll take it.”

Caleb rummaged through the slush again and pulled out a cream soda can.

“I found one, Grampa,” he said, tossing the container to his great-grandfather. “Catch!”

Hank didn't get his hands up fast enough and the can bounced straight down, hitting the ground beside him. He quickly retrieved the can and opened it up. Cream soda sprayed every which way.

“Aw, geez,” said Hank, shaking his hands, one at a time, then wiping them on his trousers. “I just reckon I ain't as fast as I used to be.” He took a large swig.

“Now let me think,” he said to his family. I just gotta remember where I was in my story . . .”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

 

The outfit rode north in the darkness for at least two hours, putting them several miles beyond the border bridge before Charley figured it was safe to cross.

Taking Fuerte's word for it, Charley led them into the chilly waters of the Rio Grande. The former
Rurale
had chosen a shallow route for the horses so nothing would happen to delay the mission, and hopefully they would be able to slip into old Mexico without being seen or heard.

 

 

Bright rays of sunlight bounced off the glittering sand and reflective rocks that surrounded them, which, like the abundant cactus plants dotting the land, had been a familiar part of the northern Mexican landscape for centuries.

Charley, Henry Ellis, and the others rode in twos, like the military, keeping themselves bunched together so there would be no chance of stragglers.

After a few moments, one of the riders broke away and galloped up to the front of the column where Charley and his grandson were leading. As the rider got closer, Henry Ellis recognized her as Kelly.

She reined in beside the boy, making eye contact with Charley, who rode on his grandson's other side.

“Charley,” she began, “do you, or anyone else, know where we're going, for heaven's sake? Or are you just guessing at which trail the attackers might have taken? We've been paralleling the river heading north for quite a while . . . are you sure that's the right direction?”

Charley smiled at the woman's concern.

“If it was just me,” he said, “I would be guessing. But this time I decided to leave it all up to Señor Roca Fuerte.”

He indicated the Mexican gentleman riding directly behind them.

“. . . He's not only real familiar with this territory, Miss Kelly, he's also got a pretty good idea about where those men took my daughter and her husband. And for now, the trail heads north.”

Fuerte spurred ahead joining the others.

“When we were attacked back in Brownsville, I was able to recognize several of the abductors,” he told her. “They are only faithful to one man . . . an ex–Mexican army officer who has participated in these types of abductions before . . . mostly political kidnappings . . . and always for a price.”

Charley picked up the conversation.

“What Señor Fuerte means is that this ex–Mexican army officer, Armendariz is his name, does not do these abductions for himself alone; he is always hired by someone else.”

Charley went on, “Señor Fuerte also thinks that tracking Armendariz to wherever his present location might be will eventually lead us to the person, or persons, who ordered my family's abduction in the first place . . . and, whether he is still keeping them as prisoners, or has sent them on ahead to whoever is paying him.”

“Thank you both for bringing me up to date,” said Kelly. “We've all been riding since before sunup, Charley. Don't you think it's about time we stopped for something to eat?”

“Now, why didn't I think of that?” said Charley.

He turned in his saddle.

“Roscoe,” he called out, “how about fixing us up a noon meal?”

“Can I build me a fire this time, C.A.?”

“I suppose so . . . it should be all right now.”

Fuerte nodded.

“Then I'll start with the coffee,” said Roscoe. “Hot . . .
hot
. . . coffee.”

“Not too hot for me,” said Fuerte, as he circled back, moving in beside Roscoe. “If you take in a deeper breath than normal, you'll realize that today is going to be even warmer than yesterday.”

Holliday moved in beside Charley and the others. He carried his frockcoat folded neatly under his arm. Perspiration had already begun to stain portions of his frilly fronted dress shirt.

“Hell,” he said, “it's already hotter'n a skillet full a' fryin' bacon.”

“Now ain't that funny,” said Roscoe. “That's exactly what I was about ta whip up for your noon meal, Holliday. Along with some of those tins of Mexican
free-holies.
”

Sergeant Stone and Pennell were already stretched out on their bedrolls. Rod and Kelly were doing the same a few feet away. The sergeant's three toolboxes remained tied to the chuckwagon nearby.

“What do you have in those boxes of yours, Sergeant?” asked Rod. “Looks to me like a couple of those cases might contain M1895 Colt-Browning machine guns.”

The sergeant whipped around, ready to fight if need be.

“Have you been snooping around my boxes, Indian?”

“Calm down, Sergeant,” said Rod. “I saw a couple of those automatic Colts in action during the Cuban campaign. That's all.”

“Then you must have been one of Roosevelt's team.”

“That's right,” said Rod. “During the battle for San Juan Heights, I was one of the first to make it to the crest at Kettle Hill.”

“And he was one of the first to make it back down to the bottom of that hill, too,” said Kelly, cutting in. “His boot heel was shot out from under him just as he reached the summit.”

“It was definitely a rock-hard tumble . . . all the way down, I remember,” said Rod. “Lead was flying in every direction, but not one bullet found a piece of me.”

“You're lucky,” said the sergeant.

“More than that,” said Rod. “I'm blessed.”

 

 

The puppy was playing in the dirt—its neck attached to Henry Ellis's wrist by a long piece of rawhide.

“Lookit them feet,” said Roscoe, who was putting away his supplies and tying several frying pans to one side of the chuckwagon. “He's gonna grow up ta be as big as Buster was.”

“Bigger,” said Charley, who stood nearby. “I remember the old Buster at this one's age. He wasn't that big at all.”

“How old do you think he is, Grampa?” asked Henry Ellis.

“Not more than three or four months, I reckon,” said Charley.

“What should I feed him?” the boy wanted to know.

“Buster ate table scraps and whatever he could find in the chicken yard,” said Roscoe.

“Oh, no, no, no,” interrupted Kelly, who was near enough to have heard Roscoe's remark. “You can't feed a puppy table scraps. It's not good for them.”

“I've been eating food that makes table scraps all my life,” said Charley, “. . . and the first Buster ate my table scraps. It never hurt neither one of us none,” he went on.

“The only time ya ever got sick after eatin' a meal, you blamed it on my cookin',” said Roscoe. “An' it turned out ta be the opossum meat in the stew that was spoilt.”

“That was raccoon meat, Roscoe, and it wasn't spoiled. You know I'm allergic to raccoon.”

“Well maybe it's time to change Mr. Sunday's way of thinking about food,” said Kelly. “'Specially dog food.”

“Pardon me, Miss Kelly,” said Charley. “But don't you think I should know something about what to feed animals by now? I've been raising all kinds of 'em since I was a tad younger than Henry Ellis here. Birds and tortoises, too,” he added. “I've raised 'em all.”

“Just promise,” said Kelly, “to cut off the fat if you feed him meat . . . and mix him up some gravy and rice to go with it.”

“That won't be no problem, ma'am,” said Roscoe, “seein's how it's me who does all the cookin'.”

 

 

It was late in the afternoon when they arrived at what remained of Colonel Armendariz's camp. Of course they found it to be abandoned. Several local peons were all that remained, and even they ran off into the surrounding foliage before Fuerte could question them.

A search was made of the adobe building that had been built on the land, plus the area nearby, and it was agreed upon that nothing had been found to support the fact that Henry Ellis's parents had even been there. That was until Henry Ellis, himself, found something in one of the old building's second-floor bedrooms.

“Grampa! Grampa!” he called out.

Charley and some of the others who were close by came running, finding the boy in one of the smaller upstairs sleeping quarters.

The boy was on his knees in a corner with his back to Charley when the old man entered.

“What do you have there, son?” said Charley as he advanced closer to his grandson.

Henry Ellis turned around slow and easy. In his hand a single red rose, faded, with a broken stem.

“They were here, Grampa,” said the boy. “Señor Fuerte brought Mother a bouquet of red roses as a welcoming gift from Don Roberto when we arrived in Brownsville that day.”

 

 

An hour later the outfit had made camp and Feather was bedding down the horses and other livestock. The horses had been unsaddled and were now tied in a string beside the adobe.

The rest of the outfit had spread their bedrolls in a wide circle surrounding the chuckwagon and the campfire. Roscoe was cooking the evening meal over the flames, while at the same time he was making sourdough bread in a Dutch oven he'd remembered to bring along.

Charley sat on the adobe's porch steps with Henry Ellis and Roca Fuerte on either side of him—they were going over some maps. The rest of the outfit was either sitting or laid back on their bedrolls. They were watching what their leader was doing on the porch and waiting for their orders.

“The Armendariz gang is not as large as I first thought they were,” said Fuerte. “He has no more than ten or twelve men riding with him . . . plus several female camp followers. It appears they all left this place at around the same time . . . shortly before noon . . . and they left in a hurry, I suspect, by the condition in which they left this place.”

“Well,” said Charley, “then it shouldn't be that hard to find them, should it?”

Fuerte raised a finger, hoping to get a word in.

“There is only one problem, Señor Charley,” he said. “They have now split up into smaller groups of twos and threes and are headed out in many different directions.”

“We can handle that,” said Charley. “We'll just do the same thing. Fuerte, you will ride with me. Henry Ellis will go along with Rod and Kelly. Roscoe, you, Holliday, and Feather can partner up. Pennell, you and Sergeant Stone can ride together. Does that suit everyone?” he added.

They all nodded, agreeing.

“So, everyone get some take-along grub from Roscoe,” Charley continued. “He'll also supply you with extra ammunition in case you happen to run across Armendariz and his gang. If you find any clues that could possibly help lead us to them, then stop who you're following in their tracks. But don't kill them. Question them about where Armendariz is headed, and make sure you find out where they're taking my daughter and her husband. By the time we all meet up again, just maybe we'll know where they're going.”

“So, where shall we meet?” asked Kelly.

Fuerte answered for all to hear: “Upriver from Laredo about three miles, then inland around six miles, there's an old, deserted Mexican army fort. It has not been in use since the 1860s. You can find it by following the river road, then turning inland at a small Indian village called Borrego Springs. The fort is six miles due east of that village.”

“Let's all plan on meeting at that fort in, let's say, three days,” said Charley. “In the meantime we'll just hope one of us can find out more information about where Armendariz is taking my daughter . . . my grandson's parents,” he corrected himself. “For now, it's getting too late to do anything but eat and get a good night's rest. I want everyone up by dawn, packed and ready to travel.”