Ambush at Shadow Valley (15 page)

Chapter 12

In a weathered cabin alongside a wide, shallow creek, Memphis Beck had just poured himself a tin cup full of strong coffee and started to sit down at the table when he saw the four riders come into sight through the open front window. Three of the riders were on horseback. The fourth, Ben Kirkpatrick, rode in the open-top buggy that sat low to the ground. The other three men had stayed in Rusty Nail to see if Soto had been followed and to keep watch on any other comings and goings.

‘‘It's about time,'' Beck said to the men seated at the round wooden table playing poker. ‘‘It looks like our safecracker has arrived.''

Looking up at Beck, Bowen Flannery worked a toothpick to the side of his mouth and tossed seven dollars to the center of the table. ‘‘Call,'' he said to Earl Caplan seated across from him. Then to Beck he said, ‘‘I was beginning to think this big-time, Portuguese, dynamite man had gotten a taste of free air and decided to duck back across the ocean.''

Beck walked to the front door, saying over his shoulder with satisfaction, ‘‘Well, you can stop fretting over it, Bowen. He's here.''

Bowen shrugged, saying to the others, "Who said I was fretting?''

Across from him, Caplan spread his cards on the rough tabletop. "Two pair," he said. "Nines over sevens.'' Then replying to Flannery he said, ‘‘You're always fretting over something or other, Bowen.''

‘‘Portuguese?'' a young horse thief named Bill ‘‘Cruz'' Cruzan asked as he tossed his cards to the table and stood up. ‘‘I thought he was supposed to be from Brazil, Peru, some place like that.''

Beck said, ‘‘Wherever he's from, Cruz, he's here now. Let's go out and meet him.''

‘‘Two pair won't do it,'' Flannery said to Caplan, laying his cards down. ‘‘Three lovely ladies here." Raking in the pot with both hands he said to Memphis Beck, ‘‘For all the time and money we spent getting this man out of Yuma, we could have bred our own safecracker and raised him to suit ourselves.''

‘‘Next time we'll do that, Bowen,'' Beck said with a smile.

‘‘I don't know what was wrong with the way I cracked a safe,'' Cruzan said.

‘‘Nothing at all,'' said Caplan, ‘‘except you cracked it all over half of Wyoming.''

They chuckled among themselves as they filed out onto the front porch and stood waiting, relaxed and confident as the four riders drew closer. Had these four not been recognized by rifleman Dave Arken, who stood posted at a point above the main trail into the valley, three rifle shots would have warned the cabin long before the riders had made it into sight.

‘‘Cruz, there's a difference between cracking a safe and blowing it all to hell,'' Beck said to Cruzan. ‘‘This man's family has mined, cut trails and excavated all over Europe and South America. He cut his teeth on explosives. Opening a safe is nothing to him.''

Cruzan shrugged. ‘‘Strap a few sticks to something, step back and cover your ears. That's all there is to blowing something up.''

‘‘You're right, Cruz,'' said Beck, gazing out at the approaching riders. ‘‘That's why Suelo Soto doesn't use dynamite to get inside a safe.''

Cruz responded, ‘‘But you said he cut his teeth on dynamite.''

‘‘No,'' said Beck, correcting him, ‘‘I said he cut his teeth on explosives—big difference.''

‘‘Not to me, there's not,'' Cruzan said sullenly.

‘‘I think what Memphis is trying to tell you, Cruz, is that this man, Suelo Soto, whatever his name is, uses Swedish blasting oil,'' Flannery said. ‘‘Am I right, Memphis?''

‘‘No, not even close,'' Beck said, watching the buggy and the riders grow nearer. ‘‘Swedish blasting oil is no better than dynamite. It's just nitroglycerin mixed with gunpowder. It still blows everything to hell—including whatever's inside the safe.''

‘‘All right, we give up, Memphis,'' said Flannery. ‘‘What is it this man does that's worth so much to us? Don't he put his trousers on one leg at a time?''

‘‘Yes, but it's what he does after he pulls them up and buttons them,'' Beck said. ‘‘He's a wizard with explosives, knows how to boil nitroglycerin out of dynamite. Even knows how to make nitroglycerin from scratch, like whipping up a bowl of biscuit batter. That's the part we want to learn from him.''

Bowen Flannery raised a brow and said, ‘‘Learn it from him?''

‘‘Yep,'' said Beck, ‘‘I want some of us watching how he does it. We might need to do it ourselves some day.''

‘‘Like hell if I'll learn to mix explosives,'' Flannery laughed. ‘‘You're a smooth talker, Memphis Beck, but you can't sell me on that one.''

‘‘I'll learn it if he'll teach me,'' Earl Caplan volunteered.

‘‘That's the spirit, Earl,'' said Beck. He stepped down off the porch, offering no more on the matter as the riders brought their horses to a halt.

‘‘I mean it,'' said Caplan. ‘‘If that's what it takes to keep a man in this game, I'll learn it.'' He also stepped down to greet the arriving party.

‘‘If you start mixing explosives, Earl, you had better not do it around me,'' Flannery said with a slight chuckle. ‘‘I want to leave this world in a long wooden box, not in a canvas bag.''

Beck stood by and watched Soto step down from his horse, Clarimonde and Billy Todd Carver doing the same beside him. While Soto dusted himself with his hat, Beck took a step closer, looking at the strange tattoos on his shaved head. The other men stared curiously.

‘‘Suelo Soto?'' Beck asked, his hand resting comfortably on his gun butt. ‘‘I'm Memphis Beck.'' He continued in a businesslike voice. ‘‘When my men set up the prison break for you in Yuma, they told you three words to say, so I would know it's really you instead of some railroad detective.'' He paused, his hand tightened in anticipation on the Colt; then he said, ‘‘Tell us those three words.''

Soto took his time, looking back and forth at the men's faces, watching their eyes turn stonier the longer he stalled. Finally, with a flat grin he said, ‘‘Filthy Rich.''

Beck seemed to ease down; his hand relaxed on the big Colt. He smiled. ‘‘But that's only two words. I said give me three.''

‘‘No,'' Soto said confidently, ‘‘You had them tell me that you would ask for three, but that I should give you only two.'' He looked back and forth again, this time spreading his hands as he smiled and repeated, ‘‘Filthy rich!''

‘‘Relax boys, it's him.'' Beck smiled and took a step closer.

Behind Soto and Clarimonde, Carver let his Remington drop back into his holster. In the buggy, Kirkpatrick let the sawed-off shotgun lie back down on the seat beside him. He stepped down while Beck introduced Soto to the other men. Clarimonde stood to the side quietly until Soto gestured toward her with his hand. ‘‘This is Clair. She is my woman,'' Soto said, as if in introducing her he was also issuing a hands-off warning to the men.

The men nodded respectfully toward her, tipping or removing their hats as they each looked her up and down with both caution and curiosity. Beck said, ‘‘Ma'am, welcome among us. We are in sore need of accommodations for womenfolk right now. But anything you need to make yourself comfortable, do not hesitate to let any of us know.''

Beside Beck, Flannery cut in and said, ‘‘What about the fellows you brought along to help you get away?''

‘‘Don't ask,'' the Tall Texan said, stepping over among the others.

‘‘They're dead,'' Soto said flatly. He gave Kirkpatrick a look, then added, ‘‘I brought them as far as I needed them. Two of them stayed behind to take care of an Arizona Ranger who dogged us all the way across the border. My guess is that he killed them both.''

‘‘Too bad,'' said Beck. ‘‘One of those men was Dick Hirsh. He's the one who tipped us off about you in the first place. Hadn't been for Hirsh telling us, you'd still be swatting fleas in Yuma Penitentiary.''

‘‘Yes, too bad about him.'' Soto shrugged as if it meant nothing to him. ‘‘The third man I killed myself, before I got to Shadow Valley, the place where I picked up the supplies we'll need.''

‘‘You've been all the way to Valle de la Sombra?'' Cruz asked using the Spanish name. ‘‘That's a
dang
long way south!''

‘‘Yes, Shadow Valley is how far south I've been,'' said Soto, deliberately not saying the name in Spanish.

‘‘Killed him, why?'' Caplan asked bluntly.

‘‘I killed him because he was too badly wounded to live,'' Soto lied straight-faced. ‘‘And I don't leave living witnesses behind to talk to the law.'' He looked back and forth among them and asked, ‘‘Is that going to cause me any problems riding with the Hole-in-the-wall Gang?''

‘‘We don't kill our own,'' Flannery offered, giving Soto a condemning look. ‘‘Fact is, we try not to kill anybody. So far we've been lucky in that regard. It makes the difference between going away for a few years, or swinging from a rope.''

‘‘Never have killed one of our own. Never will,'' Cruzan added, with the same expression.

‘‘We're all brothers here,'' said Caplan. ‘‘That's what makes us the best at what we do.''

‘‘I do things the way it suits me.'' Soto turned his eyes to Beck. ‘‘If that sticks in anybody's craw, I can turn and ride right now before my saddle cools. You can get yourself another man.''

‘‘Everybody take it easy,'' said Beck, looking at Soto, then at the others. ‘‘We all need a little time to get used to one another. Let's don't start arguing right off about how things ought to be done.'' He looked at Soto, interested in what he'd said about a ranger following them across the border. ‘‘Who was this Arizona Ranger who dogged you? Did you get a look at him?''

‘‘It was Sam Burrack,'' Soto said, as if knowing that was the question on Beck's mind. ‘‘I know everybody here has heard of him. So, you all know why I'm saying those two men are most likely dead.''

"Burrack . . . ," said Flannery, his eyes instinctively searching the distant horizon as if the ranger might appear at any second. ‘‘If he was on your trail south of the border, it's a fairly safe bet that he's on your trail right now.''

‘‘That's a bet you would lose,'' Soto said. ‘‘I made certain I shook him loose before I left Mexico with our load of supplies.''

‘‘Oh? How's that?'' Beck asked, his eyes having also gone to the horizon at the sound of the ranger's name.

‘‘I blasted Shadow Valley down on his head,'' Soto said matter-of-factly.

‘‘Burrack is dead?'' Beck asked pointedly.

"If he's not dead, he's busy tunneling himself up through two hundred feet of dirt and rock. Either way, he's not a threat to us.'' Soto offered a thin smile. ‘‘I thought hearing that would make you happy, one less lawdog to worry about.''

"Yeah, sure, it does," Beck lied. Looking back on his encounter with Burrack near the town of Little Aces, New Mexico, Beck realized that while the ranger had been difficult, he had been fair. The ranger had not fallen under the influence of the railroad's reward money, or its political pull. Burrack had only done his job. Beck could not fault the man for that.

‘‘What about the supplies?'' Beck asked, changing the subject away from the ranger.

‘‘Everything is there in the buggy,'' Soto said, thumbing over his shoulder.

Beck turned his gaze to the loaded buggy, seeing the pile of supplies they had transferred from the mule and covered with the canvas tarpaulin before leaving Rusty Nail. Stepping forward he said to Soto, ‘‘Let's take a look.''

Clarimonde stood to the side and watched as the men walked over and gathered around the buggy load of dynamite. She had listened closely as they'd talked, trying to see whom she needed to get close to—who might help her when she needed someone on her side.

Even as she watched and listened, she knew that this was not the time for her to try making a move. These men were outlaws, notorious robbers who had drawn together in preparation of plying their trade. No matter whom she went to, no matter what she told them about her situation, they weren't going to turn her loose, not now.

Even though Beck and his men were known to be thieves, not killers, Clarimonde couldn't risk saying anything right now. This was a time to lie low, stay quiet. Soto had mentioned a big job awaiting him with Memphis Beck and the Hole-in-the-wall Gang. How big was the job? She had no idea. But it might be easier for them to leave her lying with a bullet in her than turn her loose and risk her ruining the plans.

She watched as Memphis Beck flipped back a corner of the canvas and ran his hand across the top of the bulging bags and small wooden crates. ‘‘So this is what it all starts off as, all this to squeeze us out some pure nitroglycerin,'' Beck said. ‘‘Would it have been easier to mix it all down before you left Mexico, instead of hauling all this over the hills?''

Soto looked at him, wondering if it was a legitimate question or if Beck was only testing him. ‘‘Yes, it would have been easier carrying it,'' he said, keeping it straight and to the point. ‘‘But pure nitroglycerin is too unstable on its own. That's why it's mixed three to one with diatomaceous earth and sodium carbonate.''

Cruzan stammered, ‘‘Diatom—Diatoma—What the hell?''

‘‘Diatomaceous,'' Soto corrected him, looking at Beck as he spoke. ‘‘Without mixing nitro with something to absorb it, the least bump in the trail would blow nitroglycerin sky-high. If I had taken the time to turn it into dynamite, we would have had to separate it again once I got here. Boiling nitroglycerin out of dynamite can be risky without the proper setup and equipment. It's easier making it right here, from scratch.''