Once a Ranger (17 page)

NINETEEN

I
N THE OFFICE
the next morning, Guthrey, Baker, and Zamora talked about their problems behind closed doors.

“Yes, Vance did a great job of finding that place in a deep canyon. They left a packhorse and all their things. He's going to try to learn if they have horses stabled in Tombstone that match the Box K brand. If we get a telegram from Pedro Espinoza, things are going to break.”

His men laughed.

“It is serious though. We speculated they hired some hard cases to make those torchlight raids. All those ranches they raided are in the south part of the country. They never crossed the stage line road and could keep in the chaparral and out of sight. Those three killers who met Peters are lounging around in Tombstone. I didn't go down there, fearing my presence might scare them into running off. Vance is down there checking things out. In a week we'll know lots more.”

“Were those nooses there?”

“Yes. We left them so they wouldn't know we had found their camp. Vance's pretty smart for a man raised as an Apache. A minister on the reservation actually raised him and that's why he can read and write but he grew up with Apaches. Was a warrior too and that was how he won the girl who became his wife. Her death ended his Apache days. I was with him and, in regular clothes, he looks like one of us.”

Baker shook his head. “We were lucky to get him when you wrote for help.”

“Worked out good. Now we need to keep the guards up. I don't think these killers are through. Who they work for I still don't know, but somehow this time I am half convinced they are part of Pierson's men.”

“Maybe Vance can find out?”

“Yes, he's not known down there so we may get a break. Keep his name and presence under your hats. We don't know the enemy that did this violent act. They may walk among us.”

“I replaced the two men at the Davis Ranch,” Baker said. “The other two had work to do.”

“Fine. Has anyone checked on Dan and Noble?”

“They said they were fine, saw them two days ago over at the Cody Ranch,” Baker said.

“Thanks. All we can do is wait, watch, and listen.”

* * *

S
EVERAL DAYS LATER,
Guthrey left the office to have lunch with his wife. Two men standing in their own wagons were having a cussing match in the middle of the road. He frowned and headed over there.

“Hey, quit cussing out here. There are woman and children all around.”

“Who in the hell are you?” demanded a red-faced man seated in the wagon on the right, headed for town.

“I'm the sheriff of Crook County, and you don't stop cussing, I'll arrest you and toss you in jail.”

“By God, you don't look tough enough to do that, mister.”

“What's your name?”

“None of your damn business. I'll cuss where I want.” He had to rein in his sweaty team to keep them in place.

“Hold that team,” he said to a big, strapping boy coming to see what the problem was.

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, then jumped to it.

The other man, whiskered and wearing overalls, came off his wagon like it was on fire. He charged like a bear at Guthrey. For his trouble, Guthrey gave him three fast fists, and the man stopped in his tracks. With his boots planted, Guthrey swung again and struck him.

The attacker staggered backward two steps and with a roar came at him again. All he got this time were two more fast, hard blows to his face. One fist had bloodied his nose, and he looked wild, slinging blood all over and trying to get at Guthrey.

“Why, you—” He went into a torrent of cuss words that made Guthrey so mad he let go with a haymaker that put the man on his back—silence.

“What's wrong here?” Baker shouted, coming on a hard run from the courthouse.

“Who's he?” Guthrey asked the crowd.

“Henry Ackers,” a woman under a sunbonnet said in disgust. “He's drunk like usual.”

Guthrey looked around but the other man had driven off. “Who was he arguing with?”

“His neighbor Clyde Fremont.”

Guthrey frowned at Baker, who had jerked the man up and disarmed him. “Lock him up and charge him tomorrow, in city court, for disturbing the peace. Young man, take his team to the livery, and he can bail them out and pay you a dollar. Leave your name with the livery man.”

“I sure will, sheriff,” the youth said. “Did you learn to fight like that as a Ranger?”

Guthrey held his sore hand in the other one. “Yes, that and backyard brawls.”

The crowd laughed. With Baker now handling things, Guthrey was going home to soak his hand. It would be sore for days. And he knew just how sore.

* * *

“Y
OU GOT IN
a fistfight?” Cally asked, inspecting his hand at the table.

“Nothing else I could do. He charged me.”

“Do you need to see the doctor?”

“Naw, I'll be fine. Sore, but fine.”

She hugged him and laughed. “You should stay out of fights. Especially fistfights. I wonder if we should go check on the ranch while you have time?”

“I should go check on Dan and Noble out at the Davis Ranch, I guess. Those two will think I left them.”

“Do you think those killers will strike again?”

He shook his head. “I have no way of telling. They could, any day, maybe. Though I am more interested in who hired them. I'm hoping we can find that answer.”

“Your man found them.”

“He's a pretty smart tracker and I am fortunate to have him.”

“Sheriff Guthrey,” Baker called out, and Guthrey hurried to the doorway.

“What's happened?”

“Telegram from Pedro whoever that says to meet him at Dragoon Mine.”

“That's one Vance sent to me—that was our code. They must be on the move. Get a horse to ride and tell Zamora to watch things here. Get a rifle and some ammo as well. There must be something underfoot down there. We need to ride over there and find out what.”

“Are you going with your hand that swollen?” his wife asked.

“I have to go.”

“All right, but I'll worry about you anyway.”

Baker had headed back for a mount while Guthrey went to saddle his horse. Tossing the saddle on Cochise's back hurt like hell, but he made no sign for Cally to interpret that he was in any pain. He quickly cinched the horse up, fit the bridle on, and tried to tie his bedroll on behind.

Seeing his ineptness with his hand, she elbowed him aside and finished the job on her toes. “There. See what I mean?”

“I will be fine.”

“Sure. A one-handed gun shooter. You couldn't hit a barn left-handed I bet.”

“It will work out.”

“Sure, in a month or six weeks.”

He swept her up with his left arm and kissed her good-bye. “I love you, Cally.”

“You know I'll worry about you.”

“I will be fine.”

“Just so you are.” She stepped back and he swung into the saddle as a sharp pain ran clear to his shoulder.

With a smile for her, he headed for the office to catch Baker. His .44/40 Winchester was under his right fender skirt and the big paint was single-footing it.

The day's heat was rising and big clouds had gathered in the south. It should rain somewhere before sunset. Baker joined him and they left Soda Springs in a long trot. Guthrey used his left hand to hold the reins and worked his right one to try and maintain some use of it. It felt awkward to him but it was the best he could do. In three hours they reached the Peters Ranch and stopped to talk to Cam, who was busy shoeing a horse.

Olive came down to join them. “Phil, nice of you two to drop by. I can't give up your jailer; he's too good a man for me to lose. He's been treating stock for screwworms. They are sure bad this year.”

“My man at the Bridges Ranch says so too. We need to push on and meet someone. Glad things are going so well.”

“Oh, they are,” she said and about blushed.

Guthrey nodded and they rode on.

“That's what Cam wanted, wasn't it?” Baker asked with a sly grin.

“Exactly.”

“Didn't I hear somewhere that you knew her before?”

“Olive? Oh yes, when I was Ranger back in Texas years ago. She's a nice lady. What Cam wanted.”

“Wonder what Vance found.”

“By dark he should meet us somewhere down here near that camp where he found the other two ropes. I have no idea what he learned but the man is sharp on finding out things.”

“I bet none of us would have found those nooses,” Baker said, booting his horse to keep up with Cochise.

“He must have learned more about those killers or he'd never have telegraphed me to meet him.”

“You been hearing that thunder?”

“It may rain on us. You got a slicker?”

Baker said, “Yes.”

“We might ought to shake them out.”

In minutes the dark clouds engulfed them and cold rain ran off their hat brims. Both men smiled at the luxury, and in a short while a rainbow showed up in the direction of Tombstone and the storms moved on. But more rain was coming and the notion they'd get more made Guthrey smile. “Won't hurt a thing.”

“No, never look upset at a rain in this country; you may not seen another for six months.”

By late afternoon, they were close to the trail that led into the Dragoons. Guthrey saw his man come riding out of a draw to join them.

“What's happening, Vance?”

“Your man Clark is the one rides the Box K horse. He and seven more rode up here yesterday. They are waiting, I think, for someone. I rode into Tombstone late last night to wire you when I figured they'd gone to sleep and weren't making a raid. One of the four with Clark is the Mexican. His name is Alvarez. Soto Alvarez. He's wanted by the law in New Mexico, a woman told me.”

“I've never heard of him,” Baker said.

“No idea about their plans whatsoever?”

“Only thing I know is they didn't leave the whores and hell-raising because they were tired of it. A couple of them asked Clark how long they had to wait up here.”

“No idea?”

“Clark told them until the man came and gave them orders. Then they could earn their money.”

“You were that close to them?”

“Sure, I'm an Apache.”

Baker shook his head in dismay at the man while taking off his slicker as the heat began to rise. “Do you think they plan another raid?”

“Something. Maybe a stage robbery. But I think they plan a raid somewhere.”

“You think they do other things besides lynch ranchers.”

“Yes. A few nights ago I saw them stab a gambler to death in the alley and take all his money. They did it right in the alley behind the Oriental Saloon. He was drunk and had won some big pots in a high-stakes game. While he was pissing in the dark back there they went up behind him, cut his throat, got all his money, and were gone.”

“The law know anything about it?” Baker asked.

“No, and they could not prove anything either.”

“An Apache saw it.” Guthrey shook his head, amused.

Vance shook his head warily. “These men are ruthless. They murdered some drunk whore in about the same way. She was mad about something and mouthed off to Clark out loud in a saloon about how he was a cheap bastard. In thirty minutes she was dead on her back in another alley.”

“These guys must be real tough. They strangled a man to death with a rope and did that too.” Guthrey flexed his sore hand at his side and wondered about such mad dog killers.

“They weren't saddled up yet when I left them,” Vance said. “I don't think they will move until dark. We have some time to go eat. I know a woman nearby who can serve us some lamb. Then I can go watch them and come back to warn you when they do leave. They are only a short way away from here.”

“Good plan. Food sounds good. Let's do that,” Guthrey said, pleased with his man's work.

* * *

T
HEY RODE THEIR
horses up a dry wash to where a couple of wickiups stood, the crude brush shelters had a canvas wrap to shed the occasional rain. The winkle-faced old woman who cooked Guthrey's lamb had no teeth and stood barely four foot tall in a filthy layered dress.

Vance spoke to her in Apache, no doubt telling her these were his friends. She smiled. Guthrey and Baker dismounted and nodded to her to be polite. They tied their horses to a mesquite bush and joined Vance, who already sat cross-legged on the ground.

“Her name is Ki-yah. When she begs in town, she tells people she once was one of Chief Cochise's wives. She was a whore, but got too old. Two younger ones live in that other wickiup—she says they are her daughters by the old chief who died. They're whores too and have already gone to town to find some work.”

“Why are they doing this?” Guthrey asked him.

“Hey, it is much easier to make some money lying on your back than laboring as a squaw in the Sierra Madres and avoid the Mexican Army with the Bronco Apaches.”

Guthrey and Baker both nodded they understood.

Regardless, their way of life had to be tough. The woman served the lamb on some wooden boards used for trays. The smoky mesquite-flavored meat smelled good, and Guthrey's mouth filled with saliva. The mutton, though it had a peculiar lanolin flavor, was delicious and sure beat all to pieces gnawing on jerky. Hot meat greased his lips and made him hungrier for more.

“Very good,” Guthrey said to her as she gummed her part. Most squaws would have waited till the men were done before they ate. He'd eaten with Comanche, Kiowa, plus the Plains Apaches as a Ranger; sometimes he wondered whether the meat they served him was dog or buffalo, but usually he was starved to the point that anything made a meal.

Perhaps living off the flesh trade
was
easier than being a squaw.

After the meal, Guthrey paid Ki-yah a half dollar and she wanted to treat him in her wickiup. He declined and the other two snickered because she was plenty eager to fix him up. In the twilight they rode off for where the sleeping Dragoons lay like some giant red body on its side. Vance had a place out of sight in a side canyon. Horses hobbled for the night, they cleaned a spot of twigs and stickers with the sides of their boot soles to spread out their bedrolls on. Vance was convinced, from the tracks he'd checked on, that the gang had not came out from their hideout. Guthrey went to sleep wondering what they planned to do.