Texas Angel, 2-in-1 (79 page)

Micah looked away, but there was only grass ahead, and it was a poor distraction.

“I don’t know, Tom,” he said finally.

“If I could find a woman that’d have me, I’d jump at it.” Tom looked ahead as well, but there was a dreamy quality to his voice. “Yes . . . I wouldn’t mind it at all. A by-the-hearth kind of life. Do a little farming, raise a few young’uns.”

“Ain’t you too old to have kids, Tom?” Micah asked in an attempt to redirect the conversation.

“That ain’t the point!” Tom answered crisply, not to be deterred.

“I know . . .”

“You won’t regret letting her tame you, Micah.”

“I know, but I’m afraid she’d regret trying.”

CHAPTER

29

Y
OU GO BACK FOR THE OTHERS
. I’ll keep on the trail.” Micah gazed ahead. There was no sign of riders, but they could not have passed that way more than a couple of hours ago.

“There’s a half dozen of them,” Tom said. “Ain’t worth the risk. Besides”—Tom peered up into the darkening sky—“there’s a storm coming. We don’t want to get caught in it.”

“The storm’s a long way off,” Micah countered. “And Viegas could be one of them bandits. It’s worth the risk.”

Micah had been back at the job a couple of weeks and was now on patrol tracking the banditos responsible for raiding a couple of ranches. An hour ago, Tom and Micah had picked up the trail of two riders. They were definitely not Indian, and by the look of the tracks, could well be Mexican. These tracks were the first bit of luck any of the rangers had come across. Now those tracks had met up with several more. There was no way Micah intended to lose them.

“All right,” Tom said, “you go back. I’ll keep—”

“Uh.uh!”h Micah said firmly. “I saw the tracks first. You know my eyes are better than yours, and I got a better chance of sticking with them.”

“But it’s me giving the orders!”

Micah glanced up at the sky. The sun, when clouds weren’t obscuring it, was directly overhead. The day was slipping away. “Be reasonable, Tom. I am the better tracker.”

“I taught you all you know.”

“Then you know I am good.”

Tom cursed under his breath. “I knew I’d regret taking you in.”

“Let’s get moving. Time’s a-wasting.”h

“You leave clear sign of where you’re heading.”

“I will. I will!”

Micah watched Tom turn around and head back in the direction from which they had come, then he urged his mount forward.

An hour later, he felt he was gaining on the bandits. The tracks were fresher, but he still saw no riders, which was just as well because neither did he wish to be seen by them. He just hoped Tom and the others caught up to him soon, or he’d have to give up the chase. The wind was steadily increasing, and Stew was getting restive. The temperature was dropping so Micah took his buckskin coat from his saddlebag and slipped it on.

He wondered if it was Viegas’s gang he was following. What would he do if he caught up with the outlaw, Lucie’s brother? He had no doubt Viegas would rather die than be caught, and Micah also had little doubt that he himself would kill the man if given cause. He hoped he wasn’t placed in such a position, but Viegas was the enemy, and he, as much as any Mexican national, was responsible for Jed’s death.

No, he’d have no qualms about killing Lucie’s brother. But then, it shouldn’t matter where he and Lucie were concerned because there was no “he and Lucie.” Why he kept thinking of her he didn’t know. It wasn’t healthy, that was for sure, not the way his guts twisted every time thoughts of her came into his mind.

Squinting ahead, he forced his mind back to business. He thought he spotted a small stirring of dust. Maybe it was just the wind, or maybe he was getting too close to his quarry. Then he felt a prickly sensation on the back of his neck. He jerked his head around. Small black spots on the horizon behind him were definitely approaching riders. Could they be the rangers? The cloud of dust surrounding them indicated they were gaining fast on Micah. There were three riders. The mounts did not look familiar. Tom’s gray was definitely not among them. In another couple of minutes they would be within rifle range.

“Hah, Stew!” Micah slapped the mule’s flanks with his reins. The mule skittered, then started at a reluctant trot. “Hah, you stupid beast!” Micah yelled. This time he purposefully dug his heels into Stew’s middle, knowing it always made the mule mad and probably hurt like the dickens, but sometimes it was the only way to get him moving. Stew skittered again, bucked a little, snorted, then shot into motion. Micah made no apology to his less-than-faithful mount, for just then the riders started shooting. The shots made on horseback were not very accurate, but they were close enough to worry Micah.

In the flurry of his escape, Micah forgot about that cloud of dust he’d seen in front of him earlier. But now his error was deadly plain. The cloud was three more riders coming right at him. He thought of his bravado with Tom before. A better tracker! Ha! The banditos had no doubt spotted him an hour ago, then split up to catch him in a trap. And he had accommodated them beautifully.

His only chance now was to surrender and hope they were more interested in taking a prisoner than in killing one. That at least would give him time to think of another way out of this mess or give the other rangers a chance to catch up to him. He reined in Stew, then tossed his rifle to the ground and thrust his hands high into the air. Then he waited for the inevitable slug of lead to his heart.

Though he hoped to be spared, he was no less shocked when the bandits rode up to him and did not shoot.

“Your other weapons,” one of the bandits ordered.

There were six banditos, all with weapons trained on Micah. He quickly obeyed the order, tossing down his brace of pistols and, with just a slight hesitation, also throwing down his new Colt .44 revolver. He had only had the weapon for a week, and he had come to like it a lot. He doubted Hays would issue him another one soon.

“The Bowie knife, too, eh?” said the bandit.

Micah complied. He was now completely disarmed except for the small knife he kept in his boot, not that it would do him any good in this situation. It was as he dropped the Bowie knife that he saw the rattler coiled up near a rock. Its head was raised as it contemplated this disturbance of its afternoon nap. Micah’s captors had not seen the snake, and Micah wondered how he could use it to his advantage.

“So . . . I think we have found ourselves a ranger,” the bandit said.

Micah said nothing.

Another bandit spoke in Spanish, “Gustavo, he must have
compadres
close. Kill him and let’s go.”

Micah had learned enough Spanish in Mexico to understand what was said.

The one called Gustavo said in English to Micah, “Where are the other rangers? You surely did not come after us all alone.”

Again in Spanish the second bandit said, “I know this one. He is dangerous. We must kill him.”

Micah knew his time was running out. Yet any escape he could think of would be suicidal. Still, even a futile attempt would be better than being gunned down like a sitting duck. Then it occurred to him how he could use the rattler. Ornery as his mule was, Micah didn’t like endangering Stew, yet there seemed no other way.

Surreptitiously Micah pressed his heel into the tender place on the mule’s midriff, not hard, but enough to cause discomfort. The mule, already nervous, snorted and skittered. Micah, appearing to rein him, instead edged him closer to the snake.

“Keep that mule under control,” ordered Gustavo. Then to one of the other bandits he added, “Rodrigo, get those weapons and tie his hands.”

The rattler, now in the mule’s line of sight, moved. Stew saw and reacted predictably. He neighed shrilly and gave a panicked buck, encouraged by another prodigious jab in the stomach by Micah. Stew reared, causing a frenzied chain of events.

Rodrigo’s mount, which was closest to Micah, was spooked either by Stew’s behavior or by the snake. It also reared, and Rodrigo, who had been in the process of dismounting, spilled to the ground with a sickening thud. He lay still on the ground, but Micah could not pause to wonder about him. Micah could barely keep Stew under control as the rattler lurched. When he was thrown from the mule, it was only partly by design, however, he hit the ground fully prepared and made sure he rolled toward his discarded weapons.

“The ranger!” someone yelled.

By now all the horses were spooked, and their riders were having their own problems keeping them under control. One—Micah hoped it wasn’t Stew—screamed as only a panicked horse can, and Micah was almost certain it must have been struck by the rattler. But he did not let himself dwell on this either. His full concentration was on the pile of weapons. His hand grasped one as a gunshot zinged past his ear. He rolled to the left toward the only cover he could find, a rock no larger than a tree stump. Flattening out behind it, he took quick aim and fired. A yell told him he had hit his mark before he saw the dead bandit with his own eyes.

Another slug whizzed over Micah’s head, taking off his hat. He fired again, thankful his desperate plunge into the pile of weapons had been rewarded with the Colt. It had been fully loaded. His second shot took down another bandit. He had three shots left and there were three bandits remaining, not counting the one who had been thrown from his horse and was still unconscious. All Micah’s spare ammunition and his powder horn were in his saddlebag, but even if he could have reached it, Stew had bolted.

The bandits had dismounted and taken cover behind the fallen horse, which must have been injured by snakebite or some other cause. The bandits might have made an attempt to ride off, even though they risked getting shot down in the attempt. They probably figured they had a better chance in a standoff. The odds were in their favor. He was only one man with three shots. But he had already killed two of them and caused another to be injured. This was his first real gunfight since coming back from Mexico. His first chance to avenge Jed and the others.

Another shot from the bandits grazed Micah’s rock, sending a stinging spray of rock fragments into his face. Eyes burning, he fired back, but the shot only struck the dead horse. He cursed his foolishness. He couldn’t afford any wild shots. Patience. And for the first time in a long time, he thought of when his Uncle Haden had taught him to shoot.

“Patience, boy, is the first and most important rule,” he’d said often. “And always take time to sight your target.”

Micah took a steadying breath and waited. There were three bandits behind that horse, and one was going to make a mistake sooner or later, hopefully before Micah did so himself.

“Listen to me, hombre,” said the bandit called Gustavo, “you have two shots left. You don’t have a chance. Give up.”

“So you can kill me?”

“I would take you to see
mi jefe
. Perhaps he’ll make a deal with you—information for your life, eh?”

“I’ll take my chances with my two shots.”

“You are a fool. There are three of us.”

“And only one of you is gonna come out alive, so I’d suggest you discuss which of you it will be.”

Micah knew his words were mere bravado, yet he had already made it further than he could have expected. Maybe the thirst for vengeance had finally returned to him.

The scraping sound behind him was so faint he might have mistaken it for the wind, yet something made him turn. He fired practically in the same instant he saw the figure approaching from behind. Micah did not pause to watch the man fall, nor to ascertain if his shot had been fatal. He knew it had been. He also knew the man had circled behind him in order to create a diversion. And in the next instant, Micah spun around.

A lead ball grazed his right shoulder before he could get his shot off; another shot blasted within an inch of his ear. But that was the bandits’ mistake. They were not carrying revolvers. He noted that one now had to pause to reload. The other lifted his second pistol to fire, but Micah was faster. He fired and the man—Micah noted it was the one named Gustavo—fell forward, blood splurting from his head. Now only one bandit remained. But Micah’s Colt was empty.

He and the last bandit exchanged looks of desperation. In that exchange, he saw in the bandit’s eyes that there was no possibility of a truce. This was the same man who had wanted to kill him in the first place. But Micah had killed four of them. Four! Vengeance is mine, he thought. If he died now, he could do so vindicated. But why didn’t it feel better? Why were his insides suddenly quaking? He’d killed four men. Mexicans. The enemy. For Jed.

But this was no time for thinking!

Micah knew he had only a moment before the remaining bandit reloaded. Swallowing rising bile in his throat, he made a dive for his discarded weapons still lying on the ground in the middle of the small battlefield. Ignoring the throbbing ache in his gun hand from his wounded shoulder, ignoring the wrenching of his guts, Micah laid his hand on the butt of one of his pistols.

He was too late. The bandit had reloaded.

The man fired and, amazingly, missed! But the shot struck the earth close to where Micah was lying on the ground, and it sent more dirt and grit into his eyes. Though momentarily blinded, he knew if he didn’t do something quickly, the bandit would reload and finish him off. This was survival, not vengeance, he told himself. He raised his pistol, but his eyes were blurred.

“Always take time to sight your target . . .” his uncle’s words echoed in his benumbed mind.

Why hadn’t he asked his uncle what to do if you were blind?

The enemy’s weapon should be loaded by now. He’d be taking aim. Micah raised his pistol, not aiming, not thinking, allowing pure instinct to guide him. He fired. He felt like an animal attacking an enemy, acting and reacting instinctively. What would the animal do now that all his options were used up? Micah groped around for the other weapons, all the while waiting for that final fatal shot, the one that would at last end his miserable life. But nothing came. He heard no more shots. He lifted himself up. Through the blur of his vision he saw that the last bandit was sprawled over the carcass of the dead horse. Were they all dead, then?