Renegades (5 page)

A few minutes later, Stormy splashed up out of the waters of the Rio Grande and The Drifter was in Mexico. Dog emerged from the river, too, and paused to shake the water violently off his muscular, thick-furred body.

Frank put the Appaloosa into a fast lope that quickly brought them up even with the Rangers. He made his way to the head of the group, next to Wedge.

The captain glanced at Frank and said over the noise of the hoofbeats, “I thought you weren't coming.”

“I've got just as much right to be over here as you do,” Frank said. “In Mexico you're a civilian just like me.”

Wedge grinned humorlessly. “The way I figure it, this badge gives me the right to go wherever I need to, to defend the State of Texas.”

Frank wasn't going to waste any breath arguing with him. Instead, he kept his eyes on the tracks that the raiders had left after wiping out the Hernandez brothers and torching their jacal.

The vegetation was sparser on this side of the river, the ground sandier and more likely to take a print. Frank and the Rangers had no trouble following the trail. It looked as if Wedge was right about the outlaws being confident of their escape. Frank wondered what would happen, though, if the Rangers ran into a troop of Rurales. The Mexicans probably wouldn't be happy about finding a group of armed Texans on this side of the river.

The trail led south from the Rio Grande for a mile or two and then swung back to the west. The sun sank toward the horizon and was swallowed by a bank of clouds, meaning that night would fall earlier than usual. Wedge had been setting a fast pace, but now he reined in and settled his horse into a deliberate walk.

“We don't want to ride right up their backsides before we know what's going on,” he said by way of explanation. “They can't be too far ahead of us.”

That made sense to Frank. He matched Stormy's pace to that of the captain's mount.

The clouds continued to move in, and a cool breeze freshened from the north. It was too early in the year for one of the blue northers that whistled into the Texas Panhandle seemingly straight from Canada, and besides, Frank doubted such a cold snap would penetrate this far south. It was certainly possible, though, for some chilly weather to move in here in northern Mexico, and it looked like that was what they were in for. Not a freeze by any means, but air cool enough so that a man's breath would fog in the morning.

The advancing clouds brought the shadows of dusk with them. Beside Frank, Wedge muttered, “Will they push on in the dark, or make camp somewhere?”

Frank didn't know if Wedge was directing the question at him or just thinking out loud, so he didn't attempt to answer. Anyway, he had no idea what the raiders would do.

The terrain was a bit more rugged on this side of the border, as it sloped gradually upward toward a mountain range that rose in the west. The landscape was cut with arroyos that were dry nearly year-round, except during the infrequent rainstorms when they were prone to flooding. It was also dotted with occasional mesas and other upthrusts of stone. From time to time a spiny ridge wound its way across the countryside.

The Rangers were climbing one of those ridges when Frank said sharply, “Wait a minute.”

Wedge lifted a hand to signal a halt and then, sounding irritated that Frank had issued a command, asked, “What the hell is it?”

Frank sniffed. “Smell that?”

Wedge took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said after a second. “Smoke. Somebody up ahead of us has built a fire.”

“That sounds to me like the men we're after have decided to camp for the night.”

“I think you're right. Probably not more than half a mile in front of us, either.” Wedge hipped around in the saddle and called a low-voiced order for his men to dismount. The Rangers in the front of the group passed along the order to those farther back. They began to swing down from their horses.

Frank dismounted as well. Wedge detailed a couple of men to hold the horses. Frank handed over Stormy's reins somewhat reluctantly.

“Will that animal behave himself?” Wedge asked, gesturing curtly toward Dog. “Or will he start barking and give us away?”

“He'll behave if I tell him to,” Frank assured the captain. He bent to rub a hand on Dog's neck and said, “Quiet now, Dog, you hear?”

Wedge grunted. “You talk to him almost like he was human.”

“I prefer his company to that of a lot of humans I've run into,” Frank said.

Wedge didn't ask him what he meant by that.

Now on foot, the Ranger troop slipped stealthily toward the top of the ridge. When they reached the crest, Frank and Wedge knelt to take a look. Both men had keen eyesight, and it took them only a moment to spot the orange glow in the sky, emanating from a spot about a quarter of a mile ahead of them.

“What did I tell you about those bastards feeling like they're safe because they're on this side of the river?” Wedge said.

“That's a good-sized fire, all right,” Frank agreed. “They must not think anybody is on their trail.”

“They're about to find out how wrong they are,” Wedge said grimly.

He passed the word for the men to advance on foot. It wasn't necessary to tell them to check their guns as they moved forward. They did that anyway. Frank slipped the thong off his Colt and slid the revolver up and down slightly in its holster, even though he knew it would move smoothly.

Darkness fell quickly and completely as the Rangers cat-footed toward the source of the smoke that all of them could now smell. They passed several clumps of yucca plants and slid down a shallow bank into an arroyo. Sand and gravel grated under their boots.

“Quiet!” Wedge hissed, and once again the command was passed through the group. The men walked more carefully.

They climbed out of the arroyo and up another hogback ridge. When they reached the top, they could look down the far side of the ridge into a shallow depression where a large campfire had been built. Frank and Wedge went to their knees to study the camp. The troop of Rangers waited patiently behind them.

A wild pig, one of the vicious breed called
javelina,
roasted on a spit over the flames. Several men stood around the fire, warming themselves as they talked and laughed. Others were sitting on rocks or on the ground itself. Frank counted fourteen of them in all. Each man wore a sombrero, a short jacket, and tight trousers. The clothing was functional, not fancy. These men could have been mistaken for typical vaqueros instead of murderous border raiders.

For a second Frank considered the idea that maybe they
were
just vaqueros and didn't have anything to do with the attack on the Hernandez farm, or the raid north of San Rosa, or the running gun battle with Cecil and Ben Tolliver in which Frank had taken part. The trail had led the Rangers straight here, however, and it wasn't really reasonable to think there might be two armed gangs practically on top of each other.

What Frank saw a moment later was conclusive proof that the trail had led the Rangers to the right bunch. A man strolled up to the fire, holding himself somewhat apart from the others. He stood there stiffly, with no one speaking to him, and Frank recognized the loneliness of command. This was the boss.

And he wore a black mask. What appeared to be a silk scarf the color of midnight was tied around the lower half of his face. Instead of a tall sombrero, he sported a flat-crowned black hat that was tipped forward to conceal even more of his features. His jacket, trousers, and boots were black as well.

“The Black Scorpion!” Wedge whispered.

Frank had come to the same conclusion.

Wedge turned and gave low-voiced orders that the horses were to be brought up as quietly as possible.

“What are you going to do?” Frank asked.

“If we attack them on foot, they'll jump on their horses and take off. I don't want any of them getting away. That's why I'm going to split the troop and leave just enough men up here to throw a good volley into them. That'll make them run down that barranca on the other side of the camp. But the rest of us will be mounted and waiting for them when they come roaring down there.”

That sounded like a reasonable plan, although Frank wasn't sure about the wisdom of splitting their force. As it was, they outnumbered the raiders. Once the Rangers were divided, the odds would be more even.

It was Wedge's decision to make, however, and Frank thought the plan stood a good chance of succeeding. He said, “I want to be on horseback.”

“Come on, then,” Wedge told him. They began slipping quietly back down the slope.

The captain picked out the men who were to remain on the ridge. “Give us fifteen minutes to get into position,” he instructed them. “Then open fire on those murdering bastards.”

The Rangers nodded in understanding.

Wedge, Frank, and fourteen other Texans moved farther back and reclaimed their horses from the men holding the mounts. Dog whined a greeting to Frank, and Stormy tossed his head. Frank took the reins, put his left foot in the stirrup, and stepped up, settling into the saddle. He turned Stormy and walked the Appaloosa after Wedge.

Again, they had to move slowly, quietly, and carefully, slipping around the raiders' camp until they reached the wide, dry wash that led toward the mountains. The clouds obscured the moon and stars, and even though the hour was relatively early, it was already as dark as midnight. One way the Texans could tell that they had reached the barranca was the sound of its gravelly surface under the horses' hooves.

Frank could see the campfire at the head of the wash, maybe three hundred yards away. The men moving around it cast wavering shadows in the night. They had no idea that flaming hell was about to descend upon them. Frank frowned slightly He felt no sympathy for the raiders—they had chosen the
bandido
's life and all the perils that went with it—but at the same time, ambushes rubbed him the wrong way, even when they were carried out by lawmen.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. He wasn't just about to warn those bandits.

“Ought to be nigh on to the time,” Wedge said softly There was no point in looking at a watch; the night was too dark for that. The timing of the attack had to be strictly guesswork.

But Wedge's guess was pretty close to being right on the money. Less than a minute after he had spoken, gunfire blasted from the top of the ridge overlooking the bandit camp. Loud reports broke the nighttime stillness, and spurts of flame split the darkness.

Everything was suddenly chaos in the camp. Men shouted curses and ran back and forth and blazed away with handguns, firing blindly toward the ridge. Most of the men leaped for their horses, just as Wedge expected. A couple of them fell, cut down by Ranger lead, before they could ever reach their mounts.

These men were superb natural riders, though, and they had left their horses saddled. In a matter of seconds, even as they fought back against the ambush, the raiders were mounted up. With a thunder of hoofbeats, they charged straight down the barranca toward Frank and the waiting Rangers. Captain Wedge's plan was working perfectly so far.

“Hold your fire!” Wedge hissed. “Let them get closer . . . wait, wait . . .”

The fleeing
bandidos
were almost on top of them.

“Now!” Wedge bellowed.

Every Ranger's hand was filled with iron. On Wedge's command, a volley roared out, the storm of lead scything into the onrushing raiders at close range. Some men cried out in pain as bullets ripped through them. Others toppled silently from their saddles.

Frank held his fire, though he had the Colt ready in his hand. He couldn't have said why he didn't shoot. It was just that suddenly something about this entire situation seemed wrong to him. He pulled Stormy to the side as one of the sombrero-wearing bandits galloped past him, the high-crowned hat visible even in the poor light. Frank reversed the revolver in his hand and lashed out, slamming the butt of the Colt down hard on the bandit's head. The man groaned and fell off his horse. That was at least one they could take prisoner, Frank thought.

There might not be any more prisoners, though. The fighting was fierce in the barranca as guns spouted flame and lead. The muzzle flashes lit up the wash like the constant flickering of lightning. In that uncertain light, Frank saw another of the bandits race past him. This man was dressed completely in black and wore a flat-crowned hat.

The Black Scorpion!

Frank wheeled Stormy and jammed his heels into the Appaloosa's flanks as he called, “Dog!” Stormy lunged into a gallop, and Frank leaned forward in the saddle as he gave chase after the leader of the bandit gang.

Instantly, Frank knew this was better. If he caught up to the Black Scorpion, the showdown between them would be man-to-man, not an ambush out of the darkness. He wanted to capture the bandit chief, but if it came down to a hook-and-draw, each man would have to take his chances. That was the way it ought to be, the way Frank Morgan had always lived his life ever since he had discovered his skill with a gun. If a fight wasn't fair, it wasn't worth fighting.

Stormy thundered along the barranca, leaving the battle between the Rangers and the
bandidos
behind. Frank had to listen closely to hear the hoofbeats of the Scorpion's horse, but hear them he did, and he knew his quarry was still in front of him.

He was a little surprised that the Scorpion would cut and run like this, abandoning his men. Usually the sort of man who ascended to leadership wasn't the type to turn tail. Yet every man was different, and Frank could understand how suddenly being surrounded by death coming out of the darkness could unnerve a fella.
He
wouldn't have run, but that was just him.

The hoofbeats of the Scorpion's horse were closer now. Stormy was cutting the gap between them. After a few more minutes, Frank realized he could actually see the Black Scorpion now, a slightly deeper shade of darkness moving against the lighter-colored terrain. The
bandido
was only about ten yards ahead of him.

Suddenly the Black Scorpion twisted in the saddle. Frank saw the move and ducked as the Scorpion fired. The bullet whistled over Frank's head. He knew he couldn't afford to give the Scorpion many more chances like that. “Take him, Stormy!” he urged the big Appaloosa.

Stormy poured on the speed as the Black Scorpion fired again. Frank didn't know where the bullet went, but he and Stormy weren't hit, and that was all that mattered. With a final lunge, Stormy drew even with the Black Scorpion's horse.

Frank lashed out as the bandit tried to bring his revolver to bear for another shot. He hit the Scorpion's arm and knocked it up. The gun blasted, but the bullet went harmlessly into the sky. Frank veered Stormy even closer, until the two horses' shoulders were touching as they galloped along. Kicking his feet free from the stirrups, Frank tackled the Black Scorpion, knocking him out of his saddle and off the horse.

Both men fell, landing heavily and coming apart as the impact of landing made them roll over and over on the sandy ground. Even though the breath had been knocked out of him, Frank was able to get to his feet first. He lunged at the Scorpion, swinging a fist as the bandit tried to get up. The blow landed solidly on the masked face and knocked the Scorpion backward. Frank went after him.

The Black Scorpion wasn't out of the fight yet. His foot came up and his boot thudded into Frank's midsection. Frank grunted as still more air was driven from his lungs. The Black Scorpion grabbed him and heaved, pivoting Frank over him on that upthrust leg. Frank flew through the air and slammed to the ground on his back.

Now the momentum had shifted to the Scorpion as Frank tried to catch his breath and get out of the way of the man's rush. He rolled over and threw himself to the side, sweeping a leg out to knock the Scorpion's feet out from under him. The Scorpion tumbled to the ground again.

Frank pushed himself to his hands and knees, shook his head, and dragged a deep breath into his body. That helped clear his brain a little, and he surged back to his feet. His hand went to the holster at his hip. He intended to draw his Colt and get the drop on the Black Scorpion.

But the gun was gone, having slipped out of its sheath sometime during the rough-and-tumble fight. Frank didn't have a chance to look for it because the Black Scorpion tackled him, driving him back several feet. The two men grappled desperately.

Frank had every confidence that he would win this brawl, until his foot came down on a fist-sized rock and it rolled under him. Pain shot through Frank's ankle as it bent far to the side. More agony shot up his leg as it collapsed underneath him, unable to support his weight.

The Black Scorpion took instant advantage of this unexpected opportunity. As Frank fell, the Scorpion brought up his knee sharply The blow caught Frank on the jaw and stunned him, stretching him out. The Scorpion pounced on him, slamming fists to his face and driving a knee into his stomach. Frank knew he had to turn the tide of this fight quickly, or he was going to lose.

He never got the chance. The Black Scorpion snatched up a rock and crashed it against Frank's head. The terrible impact sent Frank spiraling down, down, down . . . into a darkness even deeper than the shrouded night.

 

 

Something rough scraped against his face, again and again, until it felt as if the skin itself was being stripped away from the flesh underneath.

Frank didn't know what kind of torture this was, but it was effective at bringing him out of his unconsciousness. He groaned against the pain that filled his head, but at the same time the discomfort was welcome in a way. It told him that he was still alive. The dead felt no pain.

Something jolted his shoulder. He jerked away from whatever it was, and the movement made his skull throb with renewed agony. He tried to open his eyes, but a red glare struck him like a physical blow and forced him to squeeze his eyelids shut again.

Maybe he was dead after all, he thought, and that glare came from the fires of hell....

Something whined in his ear and started licking his face again. Frank forced his muscles to work and rolled onto his side. This time he was able to open his eyes, and he found himself staring into Dog's furry face.

Above him, Stormy leaned down and nudged Frank's shoulder again.

Frank rolled all the way over onto his belly. Sand and gravel pressed into his cheek, but for a long time he was too weak to move. Gradually he got his arms underneath himself and forced his head up. He saw Stormy's reins dangling in front of him as the big Appaloosa stood steadfastly beside him. Dog sat down a few feet away and watched Frank curiously, evidently satisfied by the fact that his master was still alive, if not well.

Propping himself on an elbow, Frank reached out with his other hand and closed his fingers around the trailing reins. He twisted his hand, wrapping the leather straps around it so that he couldn't let go. Then he got hold of the reins with his other hand and grated, “Back . . . Stormy . . . back!”

The horse took a couple of steps backward, following Frank's command. At the same time, Frank held tightly to the reins and pulled himself up with all his meager strength. He got a foot under him and pushed. The combination of efforts brought him shakily to his feet. His right ankle felt as if someone had jabbed a knife in it, but it supported him enough so that he didn't fall.

“Stand still . . . boy,” he told Stormy. The Appaloosa didn't budge as Frank leaned against him. Frank moved one hand from the reins to the saddle horn. With that to steady him, he stood there waiting for the trembling in his muscles to stop and the pounding in his head to go away.

Eventually he felt a lot steadier, although the anvil chorus inside his skull continued with a shattering crescendo each time his pulse beat. His ankle hurt like blazes, too. Still leaning on Stormy, he took his hand off the saddle horn and gingerly touched the side of his head above his left ear. He winced as his fingertips prodded a big goose egg coated with dried blood from the gash in his scalp.

Frank remembered the fight with the Black Scorpion. The bandit chief had had him down and was pummeling him. That was the last thing Frank recalled. The Scorpion must have really walloped him with a rock or a gun butt, something like that.

And then, obviously, the Black Scorpion had escaped, leaving Frank lying senseless on the ground. The bandit must have believed him to be dead; otherwise he would have finished him off.

Blinking bleary eyes, Frank peered around. It was daylight; early in the morning, he guessed. The sky was still mostly overcast and the air was cold and dry. There were a few breaks in the clouds, however, and it was through one of those gaps that the sun had shined directly into Frank's eyes when he tried to open them.

He estimated that at least twelve hours had passed since the Rangers had attacked the Black Scorpion's camp. What had happened since that time? Had the Rangers wiped out the
bandidos,
except for the leader who had gotten away? Frank recalled that he had knocked out one man during the fight. Maybe that man was a prisoner . . . or maybe the Rangers had killed him, too.

And why hadn't Wedge and the others come to look for him?

Maybe they had, Frank told himself, and just hadn't found him yet. They might be riding through the semiarid Mexican landscape right now, searching for him.

Or they might figure that he had been killed in the fight. They could have turned around and ridden back to the Rio Grande, leaving him here.

Even though he hurt like hell and had a bad ankle, Frank wasn't too worried now about his survival. He had Stormy and Dog to keep him company and help him, he had a Winchester and plenty of rounds for it in his saddlebags, he even had some jerky and biscuits he had brought with him from the Rocking T. And as he looked around some more, he discovered that he still had his Colt, too. He spotted it lying on the ground about twenty feet away.

Holding tightly to the reins, he hobbled over to pick up the revolver. After checking the barrel to make sure it wasn't fouled, he slid the weapon back into leather. He found his hat, too, not far off, and hung it on the saddle horn for now. As bad as his head hurt, he didn't want to even think about putting a hat on it.

Now it was just a matter of getting back to the border. Once he did, he thought he could find his way to the Rocking T. They would welcome him there, and he could spend a few days recuperating from the banging around he had received.

It bothered him that the Black Scorpion had gotten away. Even if his gang had been wiped out by the Rangers, the bandit might be able to recruit more followers, and his reign of terror along both sides of the border would continue. Frank wondered if he might be able to trail the Scorpion from this spot.

He knew he was in no shape to be trying to track down the bandit leader, but once the thought was in his head, he couldn't shake it. He began to look around, searching for tracks.

It didn't take him long to find them: the hoofprints of one horse leading toward the mountains. Grimly, Frank considered the tracks for a long moment. His ankle was sprained but not broken, he decided, and he was able to stand on it long enough to get his left foot in the stirrup and swing up onto Stormy's back. Then he hitched the Appaloosa into a walk, following a course that paralleled the tracks left behind by the fleeing Black Scorpion.

Frank's stomach was empty, but he was a little queasy and thought it probably wouldn't be a very good idea to try to eat. He took a sip from his canteen, though, as Stormy rocked along at an easy pace. Dog walked alongside.

The water made Frank even more nauseous at first, but then his stomach settled down and he seemed to draw some strength from the liquid. He tried another sip and found that it didn't bother him. With that he realized just how thirsty and hungry he really was, but he still proceeded with caution, taking a strip of jerky from his saddlebag and gnawing off just a small piece. He chewed it slowly for a long time and finally swallowed it, then took another drink of water.

The life he had led had blessed Frank with a hardy constitution. His recuperative powers came into play during that morning as he followed the Black Scorpion's trail into the foothills of the mountains. While he was still far from being at top strength, he no longer felt as weak as a kitten. The pain in his head had receded into a dull ache that was bearable, though still annoying. He wouldn't be able to move very fast on foot because of that bad ankle, but as long as he was on horseback, he thought he could handle most trouble that might come his way.

The landscape had changed when he entered the foothills. There was more grass on the ground, and some of the hills were dotted with pine trees. He saw a few cattle here and there, but when he came close enough to one of the animals to be able to make out the brand on its hip, he couldn't read it. The brand was the usual “skillet of snakes” sort preferred by Mexican ranchers. They could make sense of the markings even when no one else could. Frank wondered if he was on Don Felipe Almanzar's range and if those were Almanzar's cows.

The trail grew harder to follow as the ground became rockier and less sandy. Frank thought about turning around and heading for the border, but he was too stubborn to give up on his quest. He wanted to find the Black Scorpion. Of course, he reminded himself, he was a civilian, and a gringo to boot. If he captured the bandit and took him back across the Rio Grande, it would be tantamount to kidnapping in the eyes of the Mexican authorities.

On the other hand, the Rurales would probably be glad to get their hands on the Black Scorpion, too. If he captured the Scorpion and then ran into a troop of the Mexican frontier police, he would just have to turn his prisoner over to them—that was all there was to it.

But maybe he wouldn't run into the Rurales, he thought as he rode along a canyon between two of the hills. Maybe he wouldn't even find the Black Scorpion. This whole thing might be crazy, just a wild-goose chase....

Somewhere up ahead, somebody screamed.

No, Frank thought a second later, not somebody. Some
thing.
Unless he was badly mistaken, that had been the screech of a mountain lion. He knew such creatures were to be found here in these Mexican sierras.

Stormy tossed his head, no doubt agreeing that the unnerving noise had been the cry of a mountain lion. Horses had a natural aversion to the big cats, and Stormy hesitated, not wanting to go on down the canyon toward the sound. Alongside, Dog curled his lip and snarled as the thick fur on his back ruffled up.