Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) (23 page)

So far so good. . . .

He stopped the dun again when he saw the tracks end around a turn in the trail in a cluster of boot prints. There, he noted that three other sets of horses' hooves joined with Erin's. He looked up along the ridge sixty feet above him for a moment, then back down and out past where the canyon walls stopped, as if sliced from the hillside by the sword of God.

Last chance for an ambush. . . .

His eyes followed the prints out of the canyon along the winding trail toward Rosas Salvajes.

Had some of the Gun Killers waited here to spring a trap on him? Yes, he was certain they had. They would have been fools not to, he told himself. Had Erin turned them away, led them away?

Charmed them away . . . He smiled to himself.

But if so, why? he wondered, nudging the dun forward. Was it because of the wolves? Did she figure she owed him something for saving her life—hers and her baby's? He liked to think that might be her reason. But he'd been around her enough to know that something as simple as genuine gratitude could have been the furthest thing from her mind. What he was certain he did not want to do was start thinking that he understood her.

Huh-uh, not this woman, he decided. Still, he felt like whispering a thanks to her for not setting him up here on this narrow canyon trail. He tapped his heels to the dun's sides and put the horse up into a quicker pace now that morning shone clearly on the rolling terrain.

He rode on.

At midmorning, he stepped down from his saddle beneath the edge of a low, rocky rise and let the dun's reins fall to the ground. The dun stayed in place, just as it had been trained to do. Sam walked up the rocky slope, going into a crouch the last few feet, until he gazed over the crest and looked down and out at the streets of Rosas Salvajes lying in the distance.

After a moment of studying the layout, the sun, the distance, he stepped back below the rise, picked up a handful of loose sand and stepped forward again until he could hold his closed hand above the edge of the rise. He watched the sand spill from his hand and bend sidelong on a hot passing breeze.

This would have to do.

He walked back to the dun, took down the big Swiss rifle case and opened it on the ground. Sunlight glinted on the smooth precision steel, the deep polished gun stock. He picked up the long scope from its seat, closed the box and carried it to the rise. With the rifle in the box beside him, ready to assemble, he lay down, stretched out in the dirt and raised the scope to his eye.

 

In the living quarters of the dead Henri Defoe, Erin Donovan dropped the bloody bar towel into the bucket of water, stepped over and peeped out the door, making certain Luis had really left. When she stepped back over to Hector, she shook him by his shoulder.

“Wake up! Wake up. I know you're not asleep. Open your eyes,” she insisted.

Hector raised his slumped head and turned his purple swollen slits of eyes up to her.

“They are open,” he whispered in a strained, slurred voice. “I have been . . . badly beaten,” he rasped.

“I'm not here to listen to your sad story,” Erin said. She stepped around behind him and looked down, seeing where he had nearly managed to get the rope loosened from his wrists. “My, but haven't you been a busy little squirrel?” she said.

“Do not . . . call me . . . squirrel,” Hector managed to say.

“You're right. I'm sorry,” Erin said, stooping and untying his hands from the chair. “Anybody who took this kind of beating and has not given the money up is no squirrel. That's for certain.”

“Why . . . are you here?” Hector asked, his voice recovering some. He brought his hands around and rubbed his raw wrists. He studied his fingers, as if to make sure none had been lopped off while he'd been unconscious.

“I told Teto I can get you to tell me where you hid the money,” Erin said. “I told them beating you wouldn't do it, and killing you was even worse.” She paused, looking down at him and added, “I took a chance on kindness working where all else has failed. Was I wrong?”

“You were . . . not only wrong, you were dead wrong,” Hector said, struggling to rise from the chair. His words ended in a gasping, wheezing sound. Pain shot through his battered chest. Instead of making it to his feet, he crumpled toward the floor. Erin managed to catch him and steer him back onto the chair.

“Sit still for a minute,” she said, fearing he might pass out on her. “You're going to have to keep your wits about you, if we're to get you out of here alive.”

Hector coughed and wheezed and collected himself. “I told you . . . I will not reveal where I have hidden the money—”

“Yes, I know. I heard you,” Erin said, cutting him short. “Now keep quiet until you regain some strength. I suspect you have broken ribs.”

“I—I recognize you,” Hector said. “You and your brother—”

Erin cut him off again, saying, “We'll make small talk later, Hector. Right now you have to tell me where the money is hidden.” She paused before asking, “Don't you have a house out of town along the land-wagon route? The doves all say you do.”

“I used to,” he said. “I used to have a wife there too. But not anymore. Go see if you don't believe me.”

“Hector, I hope you wouldn't make me ride out there for nothing,” said Erin.

“Call me Pancho,” Hector said with a swollen, crooked trace of a smile. Fresh blood oozed from the cuts on his lips.

“Yes, Pancho,” Erin said. “Now tell me where to find the money—”

He cut her off, saying, “Would I not . . . be a fool to tell you? You are one of them.”

“No, I'm not,” Erin said, speaking quickly, knowing Luis could return at any moment. “I'll get you out of here alive, but I want part of the money for doing it.”

“No.” Hector shook his head stubbornly. “I don't believe you . . . are not one of them.”

“Geeze begorra!”
Erin cursed in Celtic under her breath. “I come to save you! Don't be a fool! You can give me part of the hundred thousand, or you can die and never see a dollar of it!”

“A hundred thousand . . . ?” Hector managed to chuff. His voice seemed to gain strength. “It is three hundred thousand dollars—I counted it.”

Erin clenched her teeth and stared away in anger.

“The bastards!” she hissed, realizing why Teto wanted no one else to see the money until it first went through his hands. She knew that Teto and Luis were both in on shorting everybody.
The dirty bastards!

Upon hearing the sound of boots crossing the walk plank outside the door, she gave Hector a startled look. He threw his hands behind his back and let his head slump back to the side.

Erin backed away from him and stood next to a small table as Luis walked in, rifle in hand. He looked over at her.

“What's wrong?” he asked, seeing an expression on her face that she had not been able to shed quickly enough.

“Nothing,” Erin said. She stood perfectly still as Luis stepped over closer to Hector.

Looking down first at Hector's battered face, then at the loose rope on the floor beside the chair, Luis stiffened. His thumb went over his rifle hammer, ready to cock it.

 

Seeing Luis through the swollen slits of eyelids, Hector tried to hurl himself forward and grab him. But Luis sidestepped him, threw his rifle up to take quick aim.

Hector hit the floor facedown and braced himself, knowing he'd hear the sound of the shot rip through him at any second. Yet, instead of a gunshot, he heard a deep grunt followed by a long gasp. Rolling onto his side, he looked up and saw the wooden handle of a large bread knife standing where Luis' ribs met in the center of his chest.

Luis staggered backward a step, his rifle slumping at his side, his eyes wide in disbelief. Staring down at the big knife that had been lying atop the wooden table where Erin had stood, he shook his head slowly.

“Why . . . ?” he asked Erin in a failing, muffled whisper.

“
One
hundred thousand dollars?” Erin said. “Does that tell you why?”

“I . . . didn't . . .
know
,” Luis managed to say as Erin reached out and jerked the rifle from his hand. But she could tell he was lying.

Coldly she said, “Yes, well,
now
you do.” She reached out with the rifle barrel and pushed him backward to the floor.

Hector stared up at her, stunned, as he struggled to rise onto his knees.

Erin pointed the rifle down at his forehead and cocked it.

“I don't know how you did it,
Pancho
,” she said tightly. “But you got loose and got your hands on the knife. You killed poor Luis . . . then I shot you dead. It's that simple.”

Hector hung as if frozen on his knees, staring up at her through his swollen eyes. His hands spread. A tense silence imposed itself on the room. There was no doubt she
would
kill him; there was no doubt she
could
let him live.

“What must I do?” he finally rasped.

“Take one guess,
partner
,” Erin said drily.

“It's—it's out back,” said Hector. He tried struggling to his feet but couldn't make it. “You'll have to help me.” He reached a hand up to her.

“Don't worry, Pancho. I'll get you out of here,” she said. “I'm going to take good care of you. You have my word.” Leaning the rifle against the chair, she pulled him to his feet, looped his arm across her shoulders and led him out the back door.

 

From his spot on the low rise, the Ranger lay with the big Swiss rifle assembled, the butt of it resting against his right shoulder. With the scope mounted and adjusted, he scanned back and forth once again along the dusty street. He'd recognized Luis Torres as the gunman walked around the side of the Perros Malos and entered the side door of the attached living quarters behind the cantina.

All right, there was one of the brothers, he told himself, getting an idea of where to find everybody once the shooting started. He scanned the rifle to his right, taking in two gunmen who stood talking to one of the cantina doves in the narrow shade of a tall flowering cactus. Through the scope, he saw their lips move in conversation. The young woman opened the loose front of her blouse, jiggled her bare breasts, taunting the two men, then jumped back in silent laughter as one of them reached out and tried to grab her.

Sam moved the scope away from the gunmen and the dove and scanned farther to his right, at the end of town closest to him. Two riflemen were partially hidden beneath a ragged canvas awning out in front of a weathered shack, keeping watch along the trail. Scanning back to his left, he counted a dozen horses lined up along the hitch rails out front. At the edge of the cantina, one man stood alone sipping on a bottle of rye, rifle in hand. At the far end of town, two more men stood guard. It was clear the Torres brothers had the town covered from either end.

He did a quick head count. Two at either end of town, one at the edge of the cantina, two with the dove—Luis in the living quarters. Eight men accounted for, he told himself. That meant Teto and three others were either inside the cantina or off somewhere in town. There could even be others whose horses were inside the barn, he cautioned himself.

But his count was close enough. It was time to get to work, he told himself, ready to aim at one of the two guards nearest to him and make his first shot.

Wait
. W
hat's this?

Something had caught his eye. He moved back with the scope and homed in on Erin and the Mexican limping away from the back door of the adobe living quarters attached behind the cantina. His shot would have to wait, he told himself, watching the two hurry as best they could through a stretch of sand, dried brush, cactus and broken rock. He kept the circling scope on them, seeing them as if they were right in front of him until they both moved down out of sight. He relaxed his shoulder, but kept watch through the scope. He would wait.

 

In the brush fifty yards behind the cantina, Erin eased Hector down onto a rock and lifted his arm from across her shoulders.

“Wake up, Pancho!” she said, keeping her voice lowered but firm, seeing that Hector had begun to fade out on her. “Which one is it?” she asked as his swollen eyes tried to focus on her.

It took all of Hector's strength to raise his arm enough to point at a broken rock ten feet away. “It looks stuck . . . but it's not . . . ,” he said, his words trailing.

“Goodness, I hope not,” said Erin, appraising the heavy-looking rock, stepping over to it in a crouch.

She put her shoulder to the rock and shoved hard. Surprisingly, the rock rose off its flattened bottom, rolled a full turn and stopped. Erin's eyes widened in delight, gazing down at two burlap feed sacks lying crushed into the sandy ground. She sank to her knees, opened one of the sacks and looked inside.

“Oh yes . . . ,” she purred, seeing the bundles of bills and loose gold coins.

She checked each bag in turn, dragged them up from the indentation of the rock and set them on the ground beside her. She sighed and looked at Hector.

Through swollen eyes, Hector saw her hand go to the big Starr shoved down in her waist.

“Now you . . . have the money,” he said. “Do you . . . kill me?”

“
Kill
you?” she said incredulously. “A deal is a deal, Pancho. If it wouldn't hurt you so bad, I'd be kissing your swollen mug this very minute!” She adjusted the Starr in her waist and gathered the two sacks.

“
Gracias
,” Hector said weakly. “Take the money and go.”