Ambush at Shadow Valley (20 page)

Dinsmore snatched the binoculars and looked down eagerly, scanning quickly until his eyes found Memphis Beck. ‘‘There he is, that dirty sumbitch! You got away from me once, Beck, but you'll never do it again.''

Deavers squinted and looked down with his naked eyes while Dinsmore used the binoculars. ‘‘We've got them where we want them,'' he said. ‘‘Now all we have to do is figure the best way in and catch them off guard.''

He'd hardly gotten the words from his mouth when he heard the sound of a gun hammer cock near his ear. The three gang members from town had followed them and slipped up behind them as quietly as ghosts. Deavers froze as English Collin Hedgepeth said to him, ‘‘First things first, gentlemen. Get your hands up in the air, and get on your feet.''

As the finely dressed outlaw stepped back, he slipped Deavers' Colt from his holster and slid it down behind his gun belt. Standing over Dinsmore, Max Short smiled menacingly and did the same, lifting Dinsmore's pistol from its holster. ‘‘Shame on you, talking bad about my good friend, Memphis Warren Beck,'' he said.

Rising to his feet slowly, his hands up, Deavers kept himself calm and said, ‘‘Who was it put you on us, Hedgepeth?''

‘‘Who was it, indeed,'' English Collin grinned. ‘‘Ordinarily I would never tell. But in this case, the saloon owner, Denver Modale, insisted I tell you it was he who informed us.'' He looked at Dinsmore. ‘‘What have you done to the man? He really doesn't like you. He practically begged us to kill you real slow. He offered us money.''

‘‘That sumbitch,'' Dinsmore murmured. ‘‘He had better hope you kill me.''

‘‘Something else he asked us to do,'' said Short, still grinning menacingly.

‘‘Yeah? What's that?'' Dinsmore asked.

‘‘This,'' said Short. He cracked Dinsmore hard across the side of his head with his pistol barrel and let him fall.

Deavers clenched his teeth and looked up from Dinsmore to Hedgepeth. ‘‘You boys are all spit and silver, smacking around an unarmed man while you hold a gun on him. I'd like to get any one of you on even ground and see who comes out the—''

Another hard swipe of Short's gun barrel cut him off.

Standing back holding their horses, Hunt Broadwell shook his head, chuckled and smiled as Deavers crumbled backward to the dirt. ‘‘What took you so long, Max?'' he asked. ‘‘I thought he'd never shut up.''

‘‘All right, then, all done here,'' said Collin Hedgepeth. ‘‘Let's get them up and over their saddles.'' He stooped to help Short grab Dinsmore and lift him off the ground. ‘‘We'll have to see what Beck wants us to do with them.''

‘‘I hope this don't keep us from getting the big job done,'' said Short, struggling with the knocked out bounty hunter.

‘‘Let's try to remain optimistic, Max,'' said Hedgepeth, the two raising Dinsmore and plop-ping him over his horse's back. ‘‘The main thing now is for the three of us to get back to town and keep an eye on things. You never know what might slip in while we're away.''

Chapter 17

By the time Hedgepeth, Short and Broadwell arrived at the hideout, the two bounty hunters had awakened across their saddles to find out they had been tied down firmly, their hands tied in front of them. Broadwell had tied their horses' reins together to make them easier to lead. At the edge of the front porch, out of their hearing range, Hedgepeth, Kirkpatrick and Beck stood talking.

‘‘It was Denver Modale who told us about them,'' said Hedgepeth. ‘‘He used to be that one's brother-in-law. Apparently there's bad blood between them.'' He raised his voice enough for the two bounty hunters to hear him say, ‘‘We were offered money to kill Dinsmore real slow.''

Across his saddle, Deavers said to Dinsmore, ‘‘Don't worry. It's a bluff. These boys have a reputation for having never killed anybody.''

‘‘There's a first time for everything,'' Dinsmore said with a worried look.

‘‘Settle down, Davis,'' said Deavers. ‘‘This isn't the first time either one of us has been knocked in the head. We'll get through it.''

Looking over at the two, Beck turned back to Hedgepeth and Kirkpatrick and shook his head. ‘‘This comes at a bad time. Soto was getting ready to mix a fresh batch of explosives for the job.'' He considered things, then added, ‘‘But we're lucky you three found them before they got in closer with rifles. They could have held us pinned here for a long time, maybe long enough for the railroad to send in its killers.''

Beside him, Kirkpatrick said, ‘‘I know this means we've got to clear out of here quick-like. But what about our nitro?'' Off to the side a few feet, Soto and Clarimonde stood watching, listening; Soto realized these two bounty hunters meant trouble. He needed the money he'd been promised for this job. No one was going to stand in his way.

‘‘Soto will have to mix it when we get to a safer place,'' said Beck. ‘‘Right now we've got to figure out how to get rid of these two without them getting back onto our trail. There's too much at stake here."

Soto looked at Beck with a raised brow, as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard him say.

Beck ignored Soto's look and continued talking to Hedgepeth, saying in a lowered voice, ‘‘All right, you three take them up high somewhere and leave them.''

"These men are resourceful," said Kirkpatrick, expressing some doubt.

‘‘What else can we do?'' Beck asked. ‘‘We're not killers—'' As he spoke he cut himself short, seeing Soto walk toward the two bounty hunters. ‘‘Whoa, what's he doing?'' Beck said.

‘‘What the—?'' said Kirkpatrick, watching Soto reach up above Dinsmore, who lay staring wide-eyed at him.

"Soto, stop!" Beck shouted, realizing what he was doing.

But Soto ignored him. Instead, he slid the vial of nitroglycerin down into the hapless bounty hunter's back trouser pocket.

‘‘Please! No!'' Dinsmore shouted, seeing what was happening to him.

Beck and the others started to run forward to stop Soto, but it was too late. Soto slapped Dinsmore's horse soundly on its rump and shouted, "Hyiieeee!" sending both horses bolting along the narrow path toward the trail. Then Soto flung himself to the ground.

‘‘Get down!'' Beck shouted to everyone, watching Soto cover his head with both forearms.

All across the yard everybody dropped as one, and just in time. The two doomed horses made it almost thirty yards before the jarring of their hooves caused the volatile liquid to ignite. Dinsmore's scream turned into a loud blast of fire, blood, horse meat and human flesh. Soto jumped quickly to his feet in the bloody aftermath, his arms spread like a stage actor accepting applause. The grisly rain splattered down on his raised face.

From the ground, the others stared at him, stunned as chunks of meat, saddle and bone thumped upon the roof and splattered all about the yard. Soto turned toward Clarimonde and the cowering men, undaunted by the gruesome carnage falling around him. ‘‘There,'' he said with a bloody-faced scowl of a grin, ‘‘we have seen how it works on trees, stone and bounty hunters. What else need we do?''

The Tall Texan was the first to his feet. ‘‘This crazy, no-good son of a—''

But Beck, Collin Hedgepeth and two others caught him before he could get to Soto. ‘‘Let him go,'' Soto shouted at them. ‘‘If he thinks he's got to settle, we get it settled now.'' He reached up and knocked his hat from his tattooed head. He stood with his feet spread shoulder-length apart, a knife from his boot gripped firmly in his right hand.

‘‘Easy now, everybody!'' Beck warned, turning slowly, looking all around. The men had risen to their feet, guns in hand, blood-splattered and shaking bits of flesh and bone from their clothing. "Bloodthirsty lunatic!" a voice growled. Only Memphis Beck's hand raised toward them stopped the men from advancing on Soto. ‘‘We're not killers, Suelo!'' Beck shouted at him. ‘‘You had no right jumping out on your own doing this!''

‘‘Not killers?'' Soto laughed harshly, looking back and forth at the drawn guns and the angry, blood-splattered faces. ‘‘You could have fooled me.''

‘‘You know what I mean,'' said Beck. ‘‘This is not the way we do things.''

‘‘Then you are all fools,'' Soto shouted. He pointed a bloody finger. ‘‘You do not
kill
. Yet there you stand, ready to
kill
me, for
killing
two men who came here to
kill
us if they had gotten the chance.'' He shook his head and said, ‘‘I think it's time we made some changes in how we do things.''

‘‘Changes?'' Kirkpatrick said under his breath. ‘‘Who does this arrogant bastard think he is?''

Clarimonde stood silent, watching, listening, noting that Soto's accent had begun to slip back into his words as he spoke. She caught Beck's eyes on her, but only for a second as if to see if she was all right. Then she watched his eyes go back to Soto.

‘‘No changes needed in how we do things, Soto,'' said Beck. ‘‘We don't
murder
helpless, unarmed people.''

‘‘I do,'' Soto said shamelessly. He stepped forward as he spoke to Beck, as if stalking him with the knife.

The men started to move forward, but Beck held them back with a raised hand. ‘‘You don't want to come at me with that pig sticker, Suelo,'' he said in a grave tone, standing relaxed, but his right foot poised, ready to go into a roundhouse kick.

Soto shrugged. ‘‘Oh? Why not? What do I have to fear? As you say, you are no
murderer.''
He continued advancing.

Beck measured the distance, knowing when to make his move. ‘‘But you're not
helpless,
Suelo,'' he said, ‘‘and certainly not
unarmed
.''

Soto stopped, and not an inch too soon. One more step would have brought a boot to his face,
nitro or not,
Beck had already told himself. ‘‘Ah, you see,'' Soto said, grinning again, ‘‘I do this to make a point. To show you that we all reach a place inside us where we must kill sometimes in this life we have chosen for ourselves.'' He lowered the big knife and held it less firmly. ‘‘How close did you just come to that place as I walked toward you?''

This smug fool . . .
Beck didn't need anything pointed out to him, like some newcomer being helped along by a more experienced hand. And what was this accent all of a sudden, Beck asked himself. But upon seeing the knife go behind Soto's back and down into its sheath, he eased down. For the sake of the job he decided to let the matter drop. ‘‘I get your point,'' he said. He stood in silence, leaving the next move up to Soto.

Clarimonde watched, weighing the force and presence of each man.

After a moment, Soto looked all around, raised a palm and said, ‘‘It looks like it has stopped raining.''

Ignoring his remark, Beck walked away toward the house. Hedgepeth stepped in and said, ‘‘Want the three of us to go back to town, keep an eye on things?''

‘‘No,'' said Beck. Then turning, he said to all the men, ‘‘Get yourselves cleaned up, packed and ready to ride. We're leaving here. This place is getting too popular. Those of you splitting up, riding alone, meet us at the Pierman spread, day after tomorrow. From there we'll ride out and do ‘the job.' ''

‘‘Are you going to tell us what ‘the job' is yet?'' Carver asked, flipping a bit of saddle leather off his shirtsleeve.

‘‘Not yet, Billy Todd,'' said Beck, ‘‘but you're going to be pleased, I promise.''

For more than a week the ranger and Hector Sandoval had ridden from town to town, searching for tracks to follow, asking if anyone had seen a man and a woman traveling the hill trails. Fortunately, a few people had spotted them, enough to keep the two lawmen pointed in the right direction. Their last lead had pointed them to Rusty Nail. If nothing else, it would be a good place to stop, rest and care for their tired animals, Sam told himself, stepping down out front of Modale's Big Diamond Saloon and reading the name to himself.

‘‘Hector,'' he said, ‘‘I want you to go around and come in the rear fly just like we're here to make an arrest.''

‘‘All right,'' Hector said. He wrapped his reins and walked away around the side of the tent.

Sam waited a few seconds, then stepped in through the front fly. As soon as he dropped the fly behind himself, he saw Denver Modale duck down, scurry along the bar and head out the back way. But then he saw him stop suddenly and throw his hands in the air when he saw Hector hold the rear fly to one side and point his Colt at his round belly.

‘‘Jumping Jehosephat! More Mexicans!'' Modale shouted.

The only two customers at the bar, two teamsters, threw their hands high. ‘‘Lower them,'' Sam said, stepping forward, seeing Modale turn toward him, his hands coming down some but not all the way.

‘‘Is he with you, Ranger?'' Modale asked, gesturing toward Hector Sandoval, seeing the
guardia
badge on his chest.

‘‘Yep, he's with me,'' said Sam. ‘‘He's Hector Sandoval,
guardia
of Valle Hermoso.''

‘‘Never heard of it, or him either,'' said Modale, shaking his head. ‘‘Tell me what right he has holding a gun pointed at me that way.'' He stared at the ranger, seeing how far he could get pushing him. ‘‘I don't like anybody covering my exit.'' When Sam didn't answer, he went on to say, ‘‘Far as that goes, what right have you got coming in here bullying and demanding?''