Deadfall (7 page)

C
HAPTER
N
INE

Some days earlier, the same day Charley and his grandson had visited Rod and Kelly at their ranch, Holliday at his shooting range, plus nearby Fort Clark where they'd talked Sergeant Stone into joining the outfit, some of the local Mexican bandits who had been plaguing the south-Texas settlements along the border for what seemed like forever, decided to attack one of the isolated ranches on the outskirts of Laredo.

These machete-wielding
desperados
had crossed the customarily peaceful river with the intention of robbing the unsuspecting local ranchers and their families. They chose a small, isolated ranch house with a swirl of smoke rising from its chimney.

Elisabeth Hanna Rogers, the only Caucasian survivor of that bloody incident, it was thought, had been preparing breakfast for her husband, Newt, and their twelve-year-old son, Michael, when the three of them heard riders approaching outside their small ranch house, located east—by three-quarters of a mile—of the Rio Grande River.

Newt Rogers told his wife to stay inside while he and the boy went out to check on just who it was had come a calling so early in the day. The two males took their hunting rifles with them so Mrs. Rogers would feel somewhat secure in their absence.

Terrified upon hearing rough Spanish-speaking voices arguing with her husband several moments later, Mrs. Rogers found herself frozen, unable to draw the curtain so she might look out. The woman could only listen as she sat trembling at the kitchen table. All she could hear were the harsh Mexican voices, plus the calming words of her husband, Newt, protesting the foreigners' presence on what he told them was private property and American soil.

The arguing outside went on for about three minutes before the voices finally paled off. The group, both men and horses, had moved away from the front porch.

Finally, Mrs. Rogers built up enough courage to go to the window and peek out. By then, she could only see the backsides of the heavily armed Mexican riders moving away down the entrance road. One thing caught her eye. It was a bright red neckerchief worn by one of the intruders.

 

 

Her husband and son walked along sullenly beside the Mexicans and their horses. There was another man also being nudged along by the small gang. He was the family's loyal ranch hand, a
mojado
who answered to the name of Humberto.

The Mexican trespassers, along with Newt Rogers and their son, had been out of sight for barely a minute before she heard the two gunshots. One, and then the other. After that, all she could make out were the distant sounds of Spanish-speaking voices yelling and horses hooves riding away.

Humberto came running up the road toward the house shouting something in Spanish. Elisabeth Rogers stepped out onto the porch to meet the frightened man. He stopped, eyes wide. He beckoned anxiously for her to follow.

Setting her fears aside, she ran after him through the gate and on down the dusty road, until she found herself sliding to a stop. Hidden halfway behind several spindly cactus plants, she could see her husband's body lying facedown in a pool of sandy blood. With a hand to her mouth in disbelief, she took another few hesitant steps forward, until her son's body came into view. Humberto was kneeling over the boy, genuflecting. The bandits had cut off both the boy's and the husband's heads. It was only then that Elisabeth Rogers knew it was all over—that they were both dead, and that her life had been changed forever.

 

 

Humberto dug two shallow graves and they buried Newt and Michael side by side, under a newly planted pepper tree near her vegetable garden. They prayed together in both English and Spanish for the two human souls.

After that, Elisabeth Rogers had the hired man hitch the two horses to the wagon, while she packed a few essentials, including her late husband's horse pistol, and both hunting rifles.

No words were spoken between the ranch hand and the widow, for Humberto could tell that an extreme change had taken place in the woman whom he had known as a nervous, yet considerate, lady—a transformation from the person she had been only hours earlier to a human being filled with a deep, seething vengeance inside. A blood lust for revenge, brought on entirely, he knew, by the cold-blooded, gruesome murders of her only loved ones.

“Name's Mitchell Pennell,” said the large, scraggly bearded civilian with the frayed homespun clothing that smelled of more than one man.

He was talking to Sergeant Stone.

“I'll be traveling with you,” Pennell continued. “Charley Sunday told me we we're going to be partners.”

The two men were situated a few yards from the campfire near their bedrolls.

Sergeant Stone held out his muscular hand and the two of them shook.

“Tobias Stone,” said the black man, forcing a smile. “Sergeant . . . United States Army.”

Pennell held the lead rope to a Mexican burro.

“Roscoe found this here burro roaming wild and he give it to me.”

The animal's rope harness was hitched to the front of a small, dilapidated, two-wheeled cart, stocked to just below the rim of its weather-beaten bed with ample Mexican Army–issue supplies, packed into gunnysacks.

“It was a good thing I found us this cart, too, and that you stumbled onto that Mexican food supply cache, Sergeant,” said Pennell. “We can store our bedrolls in the cart, too, don't you think?”

“We've got us enough air-tights, hardtack, bacon, beans, corn, 'taters, an' tortillas to get us all the way to Mexico City if we was goin' that way,” said Pennell. “I found a few more somethin'-or-others in that adobe, too.” He smiled, showing uneven teeth. “Things them Indian women down here in Mexico like ta barter fer.” He winked. He reached into one of the gunnysacks and withdrew a handful of shiny trinkets and beads, letting them sift through his fingers as if they were a solid gold treasure.

Sergeant Stone shook his head.

“I don't think we'll be needing them kind of trade goods, Mr. Pennell,” he told him. “We gotta be keeping our time pretty tight. We only got a few days to do what it takes the United States Army a month to do. Matter of fact,” he continued, “I don't think we need to be taking that scrubby chip wagon you found along with us, neither. Just a couple of good horses should do us fine, don't you think?” he added.

Pennell lowered his eyes, tugged at his chin.

“I suppose the Lord'll look on both you and me in a better light if we don't go off looking for women along the way.” Pennell removed his hat to reveal a once shaved head with a new crop of short, growing stubble covering his scalp.

“I reckon I should be asking forgiveness from the Lord . . . and from you, too, Sergeant Stone . . . for my coveting like a sinner one more time. I thank you from deep down in my heart, sir. I can see now that you're a God-fearin' man.”

Sergeant Stone nodded.

Underneath it all
, he thought,
this Pennell fella seems to be an all right person himself. He seems to be a Believer, too. He ought to make a right fine trail mate on this little journey we're about to set out on . . . If I've got him pegged right
.

“I'll go see if anyone else wants the cart,” said Pennell. “We'll use the burro to carry our supplies. Like you said . . . without any of the beads and trinkets.”

He tossed the bag of now useless items into a pile of rubbish nearby.

The Sergeant nodded, watching the large man as he climbed aboard the sagging cart and took the burro's lead rope in hand. Then Mitchell Pennell slapped leather to the animal's rump. The burro struggled to turn the vehicle around, then Pennell was able to move the cart past Sergeant Stone and on toward the front of the adobe.

 

 

“Ask Rod and Kelly if they might have a use for it,” said Charley to Pennell when he was told the cart was available. Just give those Mexican Army supplies the sergeant found to Roscoe. He'll put 'em to good use.”

Pennell nodded.

“The sergeant and me sure don't need that old cart, we just thought you might be able to think of someone who could put it to better use.”

“That's nice of you, Mitchell,” said Charley.

“Thanks,” said Pennell. “Thanks for getting me out of that hell hole.”

“I put you in that hell hole, Mitchell,” said Charley. “Who better to get you out?”

Pennell smiled, then he turned and moved away.

You bet your butt I put you away
, thought Charley
. Even though you saved my life, you still had to do your time, and in the long run it wasn't up to me anyway.

The year had been 1873 when Texas Ranger Sergeant Charles Abner Sunday had finally caught up to the outlaw, Mitchell Pennell. Charley had been following Pennell for seven days, with his prey heading west, then down, leading Charley into the badlands of the Texas Big Bend.

Pennell had robbed two banks in Del Rio, leaving a teller half-dead at the first bank and a bank guard wounded during the second assault.

Charley had been sent out after him.

It was late afternoon when Charley, still on Pennell's trail, found himself entering the tiny border town of Lajitas—just a stone's throw from the Rio Grande River.

The town's three establishments were an adobe trading post, an open-front, tent saloon, and a small, crumbling horse barn where travelers could get their mounts shod or a wagon repaired, if need be.

Charley spotted Pennell's horse tied off in front of the saloon—a tentlike structure with an open front. A quick glance inside showed him his quarry was not visible, so he nudged his horse over to the trading post where he dismounted.

Charley tied his mount to one of the yucca staves used to hold up the adobe building's porch roof. As he walked toward the open doorway, he passed three Mexican peons who were using the porch as a central location where the local ranchers, who were looking to hire day workers, could find them.

Charley nodded to the stoic brown faces, then went inside.

The interior of the building was dark and cool—it resembled Bill Röessler's general store back in Juanita more than what Charley remembered a trading post should look like.

There were three rows of boxed and canned goods in the center of the store, with glass countertops on either side of the room filled with bolts of fabric, knives, pistols, ammunition boxes, and trinkets of all kinds. Rifles were hung on the wall behind one of the counters, plus blankets, trappings, and harnesses were hanging from ten-penny nails and hooks everywhere, it seemed.

There was a small desk piled high with papers that had a sign reading
POST OFFICE, LAJITAS, TEXAS,
hanging over it.

There were no post office boxes visible, and no cash register. Just a bearded Caucasian man in rolled-up shirtsleeves who was sitting on a high stool behind one of the glass counters looking through a pile of wanted posters while fanning himself with one of them.

“Constable?” said Charley.

The man looked up—his expression showed disinterest.

“I figured you must be the constable because of those posters you're looking through.”

It was Charley speaking again.

“Maybe,” said the man, getting to his feet. “Maybe I'm the constable, and maybe I'm not. Fact is, we don't have no official law dog here in Lajitas. Jake Cassidy's my name . . . and besides being asked to keep the peace around here when I'm able, I'm also the postmaster, the proprietor of this here establishment, and the blacksmith.”

He nodded toward the door where Charley could see the barn across the way.

“Only thing I ain't,” the man continued, “is a bartender. Abel Fernandez owns the saloon across the way, and he pours the whiskey. I don't imbibe so I never get over there much to see ol' Abel.”

“That's too bad,” said Charley, “since you're such close neighbors.”

“What can I do you for?” said Jake Cassidy.

“Oh,” said Charley, “you wouldn't have happened to see a man ride into your town about a half an hour ago, or so, would you?” said Charley.

“You the law?” said Cassidy.

Charley showed him his badge.

Jake Cassidy wasn't too happy to see Charley's circled star.

“People down here don't hanker much for Johnny Laws, mister,” he said.

Charley swung around with his Walker Colt in his hand—it was pointed directly at Cassidy's midsection.

“Well you'd better start hankering for this Johnny Law,
amigo
, because I mean business. I know he's here. His horse is tied right over there at the saloon.”