The Right Side of Wrong (25 page)

Chapter Forty

It was an hour before daylight when Ned and John drove back across the dark Rio Grande in a car they'd stolen from a bar down the street. Neither man wanted to drive Ned's car across the border. They didn't figure to get back with it in one piece, and besides, by Ned's reasoning, anyone leaving their car in front of a bar all night deserved what he got.

Lit by harsh lights, a different Texas border guard waved them across the deserted bridge. It was a good thing, because they were driving a stolen car, and the back seat was full of guns covered with the now oil-stained bedspread snitched from the motel room.

John glanced past Ned through the open passenger window at the reflected lights on the mist-covered water below. His stomach tense with fear, John sighed as he accelerated across the bridge and onto Mexican soil. “That was easy enough.”

“It'll probably be the easiest thing we'll do all morning…look out!”

The big deputy slammed on the brakes to avoid running over two children who stepped off the dark Main Street sidewalk and into their lane. “These damn kids down here…” he stopped when he recognized the youngsters.

“
Hola, señores
!” Yolanda hurried around to the back seat and opened the door. She and George piled inside as if they were supposed to be there. When George felt something hard in the seat, he peeked under the bedspread. “What's this?”

Instead of answering, John pulled to the curb and parked. Ned fumed. “What are you two doing here? Get out of this car and go home.”

George pulled the bedspread back. “
Todeas estas armas
!”

All these guns
.

Frustrated and terrified they'd be noticed, Ned stretched over the seat and yanked the spread back over the guns. “What do y'all want?”

Yolanda shifted forward and sat on the edge of the back seat, like Pepper back home. “We've been waiting for you all night. I thought you'd be back a lot sooner than
this
.”

“How'd you know we'd be coming back?”

“Because you were,” she simply said. “You shouldn't drive down that road. The
policia
are always watching for American cars when they get off the main streets. Turn here, and I will tell you where to safely park near
Las Células
.”

The men exchanged glances, and with a shrug, John shifted back into gear and eased into the ratty alley she indicated. Neither lawman would have entertained the idea of driving through the narrow aisle almost blocked with abandoned items and trash.

“Turn off your lights.” Yolanda hung even farther over the seat back.

“I can't see to drive. It's dark.”

“We'll go slow. It isn't far. Turn here.”

With abrupt directions, Yolanda guided them into a dismal neighborhood reminding John of his side of the Chisum tracks. She had him stop in front of a brightly painted house with a dirt yard. Somewhere not far away, a goat baaed for her missing kid. The sound came clearly through the open car windows.

“This is
mi tia's
house.” She translated. “My aunt's house. Your car will be safe here.
Las Células
is only two streets over, between those houses. No one will see you walking through there, and if they do, they won't say anything if you don't speak to them.”

The thin ribbon of a vaguely defined alley cut past rundown houses. It wasn't inviting in the dark, and Ned wouldn't have considered it in the daylight, unless he was armed. “All right, you kids get out of this car and wait in your aunt's house. You have your money, and I thank you, but it'd be best if y'all stayed away from us now.”

They were surprised when Yolanda and George bounced out of the car. “Okay. Be careful and
vaya con Dios
.” They disappeared into the darkness, running in new Red Ball tennis shoes.

Stomach fluttering, Ned took a deep breath. “You can still back out and wait here in the car.”

In response, John opened the door and stepped out into rich, thick air smelling of manure, damp mud, and rotting vegetation from the nearby river. He reached through the open back window and withdrew his gun belt. Strapping it on, John realized it was the first time he'd ever worn his pistol without pinning on a badge. That morning, both he and Ned wrapped their badges in folds of paper, dropped them into an envelope, and mailed them to O.C. in the motel mailbox.

On the passenger side of the car, Ned slipped his dress belt through his leather holster and threaded what remained of the belt through the loops. He buckled it and settled the .38 into its accustomed place. He slid a second revolver into the waistband at the small of his back and dumped Jimmy Foxx's cartridges into his right-hand pocket until it bulged. The other swelled with twelve-gauge shells.

John handed one of the already loaded shotguns to Ned when he came around. His mouth dry as cotton, Ned noted that John's khakis and white shirt were almost a lawman's uniform. The strap of a canvas ammunition belt crossed John's chest. Designed for duck hunting, it was filled with twenty-five double-ought buckshot shells. His pants pockets were also full of .38 rounds.

Without another word, John led the way down the narrow alley. The first twenty yards were silent, then a yard dog opened up and before long, more dogs were announcing their passing with ferocious barks.

Frightened and nervous, they hurried past angry curses in the predawn darkness as the neighbors and owners shouted for quiet. They came out on a street one block from the jail.

“I thought she said this was the way to go.”

Before Ned answered, dogs tuned up on another block and they realized the uproar was a usual occurrence for that part of town.

“I reckon this way we blend in, instead of walking out in the open on the street.” A man stepped out of the alley, carrying his lunch in a syrup bucket. He either missed the two armed men wearing distinctly American Stetsons, or elected to ignore them.

“They's the same as us,” John said. “He's jis' going to work.”

“Good people are the same everywhere. Let's go.”

They stepped into the second alley, more at ease this time. Early risers were already moving in the houses, casting shadows on the few curtains that were drawn. Most of the doors and windows were wide open, and if the lights were on, illuminating the residents sitting at tables, or standing idly and peering into the darkness.

“These folks get up early,” John said. “Maybe we should have gotten here a little earlier.”

“Too late to think about that now.”

Unconsciously picking up their pace, they finally came to the street and found themselves in front of the imposing structure of
Las Células.
An extremely bright bulb in a single fixture over the entrance threw stark light over the same two dented cars that were parked there the day before. The wide building's corners were cloaked in darkness.

“Are you ready?” Ned asked.

Without answering, John jogged across the street and dodged between the cars, his shotgun at port arms. Praying the guard was alone, he opened the door and stepped inside. Ned was right on his heels, his own shotgun muzzle alongside his leg.

They were lucky. A different guard was dozing in the chair. John rushed across the room and rapped the desk with the gun's muzzle. “Morning.”

Ned took one last look outside, and seeing no one, gently closed the door. The sleepy guard snapped awake, but his head was still full of cobwebs. His eyes cleared at the sight of the enormous tube pointing at his chest. He raised both hands.

“
No disparar
!”

Ned rounded the desk. “I don't speak that. Call back there and tell them you have a prisoner and to open the door.”

Silence.

Ned suddenly panicked. “Do you speak American?”

The terrified guard shook his head. “
No hablo ingles!
”

“Now what we gonna do?” John asked. Only seconds into the rescue, and already things were falling apart.

Ned spoke to himself. “I bet if we slap him hard enough, he'll understand English better than he lets on.” The outside door slowly creaked open. He spun and leveled his shotgun at a heavily armed Tom Bell.

Looking every inch like a worn out cowboy coming into a saloon for a whiskey, Bell nodded from under his big Stetson. “Mornin', gents.”

Chapter Forty-one

An intricately etched and cocked pearl-handled .45 automatic rode on Bell's hip. “What are y'all doing here?”

Cradled in the crook of his arm was a nasty-looking Browning automatic rifle. A heavy belt full of extra magazines for the BAR hung over one shoulder. The light, portable machine gun was the favorite weapon of Clyde Barrow, of Bonnie and Clyde fame, and a staple of the WWII infantryman.

The old man's presence astonished Ned, but John wasn't fazed in the least. “We're fixing to get Cody out of this jail, and to kill some people if we have to. Especially a crooked lawman named Guerrera.”

“I'd be proud to help out.”

It was the Texas Ranger badge on his shirt that finally jolted Ned to speak. “How the hell did you find us?”

“O.C. told me what town y'all called him from, and a little Mexican gal outside with long, black hair told me y'all were in here.”

“Where did you get that badge? You're gonna get killed wearing that thing.”

“They haven't killed me yet, and I've been wearing it for fifty years. I figured you needed the help.”

“You're supposed to be taking care of the kids. Becky said they were with you back on the other side.”

“They are…I hired a woman to keep an eye on them two in your motel room, and I doubt I paid her enough for the job. But let's talk about this little situation we have here. It looks tense and I imagine you don't speak the language, right?”

“We done thought of that.”

“Too late, probably. Tell me what you want to say.” He pointed at the guard whose hands were still raised.

“We ain't got no choice, Mr. Ned,” John said. “We got to do something and do it quick.”

Never one to hesitate, Ned decided. “Tell him to call back and say they have a prisoner here. Open the door.”

Bell addressed the young man in rapid Spanish. The man sat perfectly still with his hands still in the air, taking in the situation. John pushed the muzzle closer to the guard's head, and his terrified eyes flicked back and forth from the Ranger to the giant black man glaring at him over the shotgun.

Bell spoke again in Spanish, softly, and the guard got the message not to try and warn anyone on the other end. He gingerly picked up the receiver, conversed briefly, and then answered a question as Bell listened carefully. He replaced the receiver and waited with both hands flat on the table.

“Did he say the right words?” Ned asked.

“Yes.”

With a fast, smooth motion borne of long practice, Ned reached into his back pocket for the lead-weighted sap he always carried. His wrist flicked. The leather-covered sap made a sickening crack behind the guard's right ear, and he dropped face forward onto the desk. A thin trickle of blood found its way through his hair.

Tom Bell nodded in approval. “Always liked the way those work.”

Ned remained behind the desk and kept an eye on both doors. “You're liable to get killed here this morning.”

“It don't matter, I've got the cancer anyway,” Tom said dismissively. He took up a position to cover both entrances.

John waited beside the door leading into the jail. Keys rattled on the other side and it creaked open. The big deputy's huge arm shot through the opening and grabbed the first shirt he saw. Surprise always makes unprepared people pause, to take stock of the situation, and question the reality of what's happening. It worked once again. With a violent yank, John slung a very shocked guard into the room, where he slammed to the floor. Tom kicked him hard in the side, and then in the head, his pointed boots inflicting serious damage.

Capitán
Guerrera stood in the doorway, his hands held high and staring smack down the large bore of John's twelve-gauge. Abruptly awakened from the deep sleep of the virtuous on the cot in his office and unable to comprehend what was going on, the
capitán
hadn't even buttoned the shirt over his flat belly. They'd gotten a call that a prisoner had been brought in, and when they opened the door, the deputy beside him had literally flown away.

Guerrera's mouth opened and closed like a fish. Tom Bell lifted his chin and spoke quickly in Spanish. Guerrera kept his hands high and entered the room to face the deep barrel of still another shotgun and a mean-looking rifle promising a long, deep sleep.

John tugged a pair of cuffs from his back pocket, spun Guerrera around to face the wall, and snapped the metal around his wrists.

When Bell asked a question in Spanish, Guerrera's sly eyes flicked to the floor. He shrugged, buying time to clear his head.

“
No se
.”

Bell leaned his forearm against the back of the
capitán's
neck, forcing his stubbled face into the gray wall, all the while keeping up a steady stream of words incomprehensible to the two Texas lawmen.

“I've trailed dope from this pig sty to Texas and right back here to you and Whitlatch. I know you rubbed him and his men out, and for my own reasons, I'm ending this business here this morning, so you can't send no more of that shit into my country.”

“What's he saying, Tom?”

“Hang on a minute, Ned.” Bell switched back to Spanish. “I'd just as soon gut you like a fish, but I'm about to turn you over to this man here. I just wanted you to know that I've passed the word to the Rangers, so they're about to tear your playhouse down.”

Guerrera raised his lip in a sneer. “
No sé lo que estás hablando
.”

I don't know what you're talking about.

Bell's dead eyes erased the sneer and replaced it with fear. “
No me importa. Estás muerto. Dónde está Cody
?”

I don't care. You're dead. Where's Cody?

Ned's patience was wearing thin. “Where the hell does he have Cody? Have they moved him out yet?”

Guerrera shrugged. “
No se
.”

“Says he don't know where Cody is,” Bell translated.

“We do.” Ned was at the end of his rope. He stepped forward and drove his fist deep into Guerrera's bare abdomen, doubling the man over in a cough of pain. “I told you I'd be back.” He whacked the side of Guerrera's head with the leather-covered lead sap, harder than he'd ever hit anyone before, and then in blind rage, harder once again.

“Ned.”

He heard John's caution. “I ain't.”

Ned tugged a handkerchief from his pocket. A handful of bullets came with it and rattled at his feet. He quickly stuffed the cloth into Guerrera's mouth. Instead of pushing it in with his fingers, he used the barrel of the .38 to jam it deep. John pitched him the red bandana he used as a handkerchief, and Ned yanked the material between Guerrera's lips and tied it firmly into place behind his head.

He rolled Guerrera onto his belly, removed the
capitán's
belt, and drew it tight around the man's feet. Finally, he bent Guerrera's legs and looped the remainder of the belt through the cuffs' short links. Trussed on his stomach like a hog to slaughter, he lay helplessly, trying to breathe through his congested nose.

“That took long enough,” Bell said. “Cutting his throat would have been faster.”

“I thought about it, but I ain't that far into this,
yet
. We're lawmen even though we're in the middle of this bidness. Thought you were, too.”

“Sometimes the law gets gray around the edges down here.” Bell's wide eyes took in the empty hallway. That one sentence spoke volumes. “Where to now?”

“Cody's cell, and that'll be the hard part.”

“You know where it is?”

“We have a map.”

“This gets better.”

John stuck his head through the doorway and checked the area in both directions. The hallway was empty, except for a wooden table directly opposite from where they stood. When John ducked into the corridor, Ned matched his pace. Bell brought up the rear, keeping a careful watch over his shoulder for anyone suddenly appearing behind them.

Three old lawmen men crept through the stench and filth to break a fellow lawman out of a Mexican jail.