Renegades (26 page)

Once he had made up his mind what he was going to do, the time for action couldn't come soon enough to suit Frank Morgan. Impatience grew inside him as he waited for the sun to go down and darkness to settle over the plains. He told himself he was too old to be feeling like that, but he knew it really didn't matter.

He gnawed on some jerky. That was all anybody had to eat. If the men had to stay out here for very long, they would have to hunt for food. There were deer in the area, along with prairie chickens and wild boars. But they didn't have any ammunition to waste, either, so anybody who went hunting would have to be very efficient with their bullets.

The sun dipped below the horizon and the sky deepened in color from blue to purple to black. Stars glittered from horizon to horizon, but the moon was still down. Frank shook hands all around and then swung up into the saddle, ready to ride.

He headed east, using the stars to guide him. He planned to follow an easterly course for most of the night and then cut due south for Laredo.

As he rode, thoughts of Roanne Williamson went through his mind. He recalled that Nathan Wedge had seemed interested in Roanne. Now that Wedge was running San Rosa like his own little kingdom, would he decide to force himself on Roanne? That possibility made Frank's jaw tighten with anger, and his hand on the reins clenched into a fist. It would have felt mighty good, he thought, to smash that fist right into the middle of Wedge's face.

Roanne was smart, Frank told himself She would figure out a way to keep Wedge at bay without infuriating him to the point that he lost control. But Frank's instincts told him that Roanne would only be able to dodge trouble for so long, and then Wedge would take what he wanted.

With any luck the showdown would come before that time. Frank was going to do everything in his power to see that it did.

He kept Stormy moving at a fast, steady pace, stopping only to let the Appaloosa drink from a puddle in a mostly dry streambed. Frank estimated that he had covered more than ten miles by the time the moon began to rise. It was orange, what folks up in Parker County had called a harvest moon when he was a kid. The night air now had enough of a chill to it that Frank was glad for the denim jacket he was wearing.

The moon was pretty, but it also represented an added risk. Frank thought he was far enough away from San Rosa that he was beyond the range of any patrols Wedge might have sent out. But he couldn't know that for sure, and as the moon rose higher and the orb faded to a paler shade of orange, he suddenly caught sight of some dust in the air, revealed by the moon glow. Frank reined in to study it.

He figured at least half-a-dozen riders would be necessary to kick up that much dust. Tonight, the chances were good that meant an outlaw patrol. Frank turned Stormy and looked to the south. That way appeared clear. He hadn't intended to turn south just yet, but the enemy was right in front of him and he didn't have much choice in the matter.

Frank kept casting glances over his left shoulder at the dust as he rode toward the Rio Grande. He didn't think Stormy's hooves were kicking up enough dust so that the patrol would spot it, even in the bright moonlight, but there was always a chance they would notice. If the outlaws swung toward him, he would have to make a run for it. If need be, he could try crossing the river and working his way toward Laredo on the Mexican side of the border.

Suddenly, so close at hand that it was shocking, somebody yelled,
“Madre de Dios!”
Frank jerked back on the Appaloosa's reins as dark figures seemingly began to rise up out of the ground itself right in front of him, like dead souls leaving their graves.

These hombres weren't dead, though, just mad and well armed. Muzzle flashes split the darkness as somebody yelled commands in Spanish.

Rurales!

Frank bit back a curse as he whirled Stormy. Bullets sang past his ears. From the looks of it, luck had deserted him and he had ridden right into the middle of a Rurale camp. He had avoided the patrol he had seen earlier, only to find himself in an even worse spot.

He jabbed his boot heels into Stormy's flanks, sending the Appaloosa leaping forward into a gallop. A sombrero-wearing figure jumped in front of them, only to go down screaming as Stormy trampled right over him. Frank didn't know if the Rurale had meant to get in the way of the charging horse or if it had been an accident. Either way, it was fatal.

He drew his Peacemaker and sprayed bullets into a line of Rurales. A couple of the Mexicans went down. Stormy jumped, and Frank knew that a bullet must have burned across the big horse's hide. Stormy settled back down instantly into a smooth stride, however, so Frank knew the Appaloosa wasn't seriously wounded.

He holstered his Colt and leaned forward over Stormy's neck, making himself a smaller target. Moonlight was better than no light at all, but it still made for poor shooting conditions. If he could just bust through, he thought, then Stormy could outrun any of the Rurales' horses. He still had a chance to get away.

But then once again Lady Luck turned her back on Frank Morgan. Stormy stumbled and went down with shocking suddenness, whinnying shrilly as he fell. Instinct made Frank kick his feet free of the stirrups and throw himself out of the saddle. He slammed hard into the ground, the impact knocking all the air out of his body He rolled over several times and came to a stop on his back. All he could do was lie there stunned and breathless.

Babbling excitedly, the Rurales surrounded him, looming over him in the moonlight. Frank expected them to use their bayonets to make a pincushion out of him, and they might have done just that if a commanding voice had not started barking orders at them.

Most of the Rurales drew back a little, but several of them bent over, grabbed Frank, and jerked him roughly to his feet. He was starting to catch his breath now, and his wits came back to him. He had dropped his gun when he fell, so he couldn't fight back. He stood there, willing himself to remain calm, and waited to see what was going to happen next.

The Rurale who had been shouting orders strode up in front of Frank and glared at him. “You!” he practically spat. “Morgan!”

“Do we know each other, hombre?” Frank drawled.

“I am Sergeant Lopez. I replaced the sergeant who was killed at the village.” The man backhanded Frank across the face to punctuate the introduction. The Rurales holding Frank didn't let him fall or even stagger. Sergeant Lopez smiled and went on. “Capitán Estancia is going to be very glad to see you, gringo.”

Frank tasted blood at the corner of his mouth. “I don't reckon the feeling will be mutual.”

“Tie him up!” Lopez snapped at his men. “
Andale!
We ride tonight!”

Frank felt hollow inside. If indeed he was the last chance for Cecil Tolliver and the other honest Texans to get help from outside, then they might well be doomed.

But he couldn't give up yet. There were still cards to be played in this game. Stormy was all right; Frank had already seen the big Appaloosa up and walking around, limping slightly but not enough to indicate a serious injury. Stormy must have stepped in a prairie-dog hole while Frank was trying to break through the Rurales. That was the only explanation for his sudden fall. But such a mishap could have easily broken the horse's leg. Shoot, thought Frank, a fall like that could have broken
his
neck.

But instead, both of them were still alive and relatively intact. Maybe luck hadn't completely deserted them.

Sergeant Lopez had Frank's wrists tied together in front of him. Some of the Rurales tried to catch Stormy and bring him over so that Frank could mount up, but Stormy shied away and reared up, making the Rurales jump to avoid his slashing hooves. Lopez drew a pistol and aimed it at Stormy's head, saying, “Get that devil horse of yours under control, Morgan, or I'll kill him and make you walk where we're going!”

Frank whistled softly and said, “Stormy! Take it easy, boy. Come here.”

Stormy came over to him and nudged him with his nose. Frank talked to him for a moment in a quiet, calming tone, then grasped the saddle horn with his bound hands, put his left foot in the stirrup, and pulled himself up onto the Appaloosa's back. The Rurales began to mount up as well. Following Lopez's orders, several of them kept their rifles trained on Frank at all times.

From what Lopez had said, it was obvious that they were going to take him to wherever Estancia was. Frank had no idea where that might be, but his hope was that somewhere along the way he would have a chance to make a break for freedom. If that opportunity came along, he would seize it.

Lopez was a careful man, though. He kept Frank surrounded and under the gun as the group rode through the night.

One of the Rurales asked the sergeant, “Were not our orders to remain in this area and patrol to make sure none of the gringos escape?”

Lopez turned in the saddle and backhanded the man as he had done to Frank. “Stupid! Is not this man Morgan one of the greatest prizes among the gringos? There are other patrols, but only
we
have captured the famous gunfighter! Capitán Estancia will surely reward us.”

That put to rest any grumbling that the other men might do. The idea of a reward was appealing to all of them.

The Rurales rode most of the night with their prisoner. Lopez didn't set a very fast pace, though, so Frank wasn't sure how far they actually went. He knew they had not yet reached the Rio Grande when they came in sight of an adobe ranch house. Frank didn't recognize the place. He figured it was the home of one of Cecil Tolliver's neighbors.

At the moment, though, the Rurales had taken it over. In the graying dawn light, Frank saw that the corral was full of their mounts, and several of the Rurales lounged around the door of the bunkhouse. Smoke rose from the chimney of the cookshack. The day was getting started.

Sergeant Lopez hailed one of the men and said to him in Spanish, “Tell Captain Estancia that we have captured the man named Frank Morgan!”

Wide-eyed, the Rurale stared at Frank for a second before turning and hurrying into the ranch house to carry out the sergeant's order. Lopez, Frank, and the men surrounding him all came to a halt in front of the house as Captain Domingo Estancia strode outside a moment later, a look of arrogant hatred on his hawklike face.

As nattily uniformed as ever, despite the early hour, Estancia glared up at Frank and said, “Ah, Señor Morgan! I was afraid that we might never cross paths again.”

“So was I,” Frank said.

Estancia frowned and asked, “Why is that?”

“I was afraid I might never get the chance to line you up in my gunsights.”

The officer's face darkened with rage, but after a moment he brought himself under control and forced a cold smile onto his face. “Tell me where the rest of the Texans who escaped may be found, and perhaps I will give you the gift of a quick death.”

“Go to hell,” Frank said.

He knew he was taking a chance. Estancia might kill him out of hand. But Frank thought there was a good chance the captain would want to keep him alive for the time being. Estancia might believe that he could torture valuable information out of Frank. There had to be a rivalry of sorts between Estancia and Wedge, even though they were partners. Such a thing would be only natural between two such ambitious men. Estancia might think that having Frank as his prisoner would give him a slight advantage over the renegade Texas Ranger.

For a long moment Estancia looked like he wanted to whip out his pistol and blow Frank out of the saddle. But finally he said to Lopez, “Sergeant, take Señor Morgan to the smokehouse over there and lock him up. We will see if he feels more like talking later.”

Frank was dragged out of the saddle, taken across the ranch yard to a sturdy little log structure near the cookshack, and thrown inside. There was only one door. It slammed shut behind him as he lost his balance and fell to his knees. Darkness closed in around him.

Frank moved over and sat against the wall in a more comfortable position. If Estancia thought that locking him up in a small, confined space was suddenly going to make him start cooperating, the captain was bound to be disappointed. If it had been mid-summer, the heat in the smokehouse might have been enough to cook a man's brain. Now, in late autumn, it wasn't all that unpleasant in here, even as the sun rose higher in the sky and the temperature grew warmer.

Without even thinking about it, Frank fell asleep, his head propped against the log wall behind him.

The Rurales left Frank in the smokehouse all day. Hunger gnawed at his belly and thirst parched his throat. Worse than any physical discomfort, however, was the knowledge that he had let his friends down. Worry over what might be happening to them plagued his thoughts.

Finally, that evening, the bar over the smokehouse door was removed and the door was opened. Even though the sun was down, the twilight seemed bright enough to make Frank squint. Several burly Rurales entered and hauled him outside. He was set on his feet and marched across to the ranch house.

Captain Estancia was waiting for him in the parlor, hands clasped behind his back as he stood ramrod-straight beside the fireplace. “Señor Morgan,” Estancia said with a curt nod. “I trust you enjoyed your day.”

Frank was a little dizzy from hunger and thirst, but he didn't let Estancia see that as he put a faint smile on his face and said, “Mighty pleasant. I appreciate the chance to get in some good rest. Been a mite busy lately.”

Estancia's lips thinned in anger, but he remained in control. “Now that you have had time to think,” he said, “perhaps you would reconsider telling me what I want to know.”

“Nope,” Frank said with a shake of his head. “I can't help you.”

“You realize I can force the information out of you?”

“Correction,” Frank said. “You can try.”

Estancia looked past Frank and nodded. Frank had an idea of what was coming and tried to prepare himself, but there was no way to get ready for a rifle butt slammed into the small of his back. Sergeant Lopez, who was standing behind Frank, struck the blow, grunting with effort as he thrust it home.

Pain exploded up Frank's spine. His legs went numb and he would have fallen if two of the Rurales hadn't caught hold of his arms and held him up. He sagged in their grip, breathing hard. But he hadn't cried out. His mouth had remained tightly closed.

“Señor Morgan, there is no need to make things so difficult for both of us,” Estancia said. “Tell me where to find those troublesome Texans, and your pain will all be over.”

Through clenched teeth, Frank said, “Because you'll kill me, right?”

Estancia shrugged. “Sometimes a bullet in the head can be a merciful thing.”

He nodded again, and Lopez struck a second blow, this time on the point of Frank's left shoulder blade. Agony flooded through Frank's body. He wondered if the bone was broken.

“Señor Morgan?”

“Go . . . to . . . hell!” It was the same answer he had given Estancia early that morning, but Frank didn't see how he could improve on it.

While Estancia stood there watching impassively, Sergeant Lopez and the other Rurales beat Frank mercilessly, striking him with rifle butts and fists. Somewhere along the way, his feet were kicked out from under him, and as he lay huddled on the floor of the parlor, their boots thudded relentlessly into his ribs and stomach. There was no telling what damage they were doing to him inside. And there was nothing he could do except lie there and endure it.

Finally, Estancia called a halt to the beating. Frank heard the words only vaguely. He held on stubbornly to the few shreds of consciousness remaining to him. He tasted blood in his mouth as somebody took hold of his hair and jerked his head up so that Estancia could look down into his face.

Frank's lips curled in a snarl as he gazed blearily up at the officer. Estancia just straightened and shook his head.

“I can still see the defiance in his eyes. Take him back to the smokehouse and lock him up again.”

Lopez asked, “Should we send word to Capitán Wedge that Morgan is our prisoner?”

“Fool!” Estancia snapped. “I am in command here, not Wedge.”

“Of course, Capitán,” Lopez said hastily. “I meant no disrespect.”

Estancia flicked a hand, signaling for them to drag Frank's bloody, half-conscious form out of the room.

Frank drifted in and out of awareness. It was dark where he was, pitch black. He didn't know if that was because it was night, or because he was back in the smokehouse, or because he was blind. All three of those things might be true. He lay on something hard—the ground?—and concentrated on breathing deeply and slowly. His ribs were sore, but he didn't feel the sharp pain that would have told him some of them were broken. He moved his fingers, wiggled his toes. Everything still worked. At last he pushed himself into a sitting position. A wave of dizziness went through him. He felt sick, but there was nothing in his stomach to come up. Reaching out in the darkness, he touched the rough surface of the log wall. He shifted around until he was leaning against it again. He saw a faint glow of starlight filtering in around the door and knew that he wasn't blind after all. He was locked up and it was night, but he was still alive.

He began to laugh softly. He was alive. Sooner or later, Captain Domingo Estancia was sure going to regret that.

 

 

Frank didn't know if he passed out or merely fell asleep. Somehow, though, the night passed, and when the cracks around the smokehouse door began to turn gray with the approach of dawn, he was alert. In pain, certainly, but he was able to push that out of his brain and not think about it. He put his hands against the wall and braced himself as he struggled to his feet. After a long moment, he was able to stand up on his own.

He took stock of himself. His belly was so empty his backbone was gnawing on his belt buckle. His tongue was swollen from lack of water and his throat was as dry as Death Valley. He didn't know if he could talk or not. When he tried to take a step, he stumbled and almost fell. But he caught himself with his hands against the wall and tried again, and this time he was steadier. Slowly, stubbornly, he began to make his way around the empty interior of the smokehouse. Stiff, sore muscles loosened slightly, so that after a while he was actually walking, rather than hobbling. Even though his wrists were still tied, he swung his arms back and forth, loosening those muscles as well.

A grim smile tugged at Frank's mouth. He was in no shape for a fight, but at least he could move around a little. If a chance to strike back at his captors somehow presented itself, he could at least try to seize it. Estancia and the Rurales might still be in for a surprise or two....

He heard footsteps approaching the door. When it was opened, the dawn light made his eyes narrow. Sergeant Lopez started to step into the smokehouse, but stopped short when he saw that Frank was on his feet, waiting for him.

“Ah, Morgan, you are a tough gringo,” Lopez said with a mean grin. “
Muy malo.
You want to jump me, try to take my gun away from me?” Lopez raised both hands and beckoned Frank forward. “Go ahead, try. I dare you.”

Frank ignored the challenge. “Did Estancia send you to fetch me, or did he give you some other errand?”

The note of contempt in Frank's voice made the grin disappear from Lopez's face. He snapped an order in Spanish to the men with him, who came into the smokehouse and reached for Frank's arms to pull him out. He avoided their grip and stepped forward on his own, walking out of the makeshift prison without any help. Rifle-toting Rurales fell in around him and escorted him to the ranch house.

Estancia waited just outside the front door, wearing his gray sombrero this morning. He said, “I did not expect to see you so hale and healthy-looking, Señor Morgan. You must be a very strong man.”

“Strong enough,” Frank said.

“Enough to be an annoyance.” Estancia gave a jerk of his head. “I have grown tired of dealing with you. My patrols are searching this part of the country, and I am confident they will find the pitiful remnants of the band of Texans who foolishly thought to oppose us. So I have decided that I no longer require your assistance.”

“Going to let me go, are you?”

Estancia snapped his fingers and said, “Take him.”

The Rurales closed in, grabbing Frank from both sides. He writhed and tried to pull free, but there were too many of them. They dragged him around the ranch house toward an adobe barn. Frank saw half-a-dozen more Rurales waiting there, lined up facing the wall of the barn. Each man held a rifle.

A firing squad.
Frank had never seen one before, but he recognized it for what it was anyway.

When he looked past the barn he saw several mounds of freshly turned earth. New graves, he thought, probably where the owners of this ranch were buried. Estancia had moved in and taken the place over as his headquarters, brutally murdering the unfortunate Texans who had lived here. Now Frank was destined to join them.

The Rurales dragged Frank over to the barn and slammed him against the wall, standing him up there with his back against the adobe. They moved out of the way, leaving him to face the firing squad.

Estancia strolled up, looking pleased with himself. “I suppose I should give you one last chance to cooperate and tell me what I want to know, Morgan,” he said. “You will die in the next few minutes regardless, but perhaps you have had a change of heart.”

“There's a fiery place I've been telling you to go to for the past couple of days, Estancia. You don't seem to be able to get that idea through your head.”

The Rurale officer's face darkened with anger. “Very well.” He turned to Sergeant Lopez. “Proceed.”

“One thing,” Frank said quickly before Lopez could start giving the orders for the execution. He held out his bound wrists. “You reckon somebody could cut these thongs? I'd rather die with my hands free.”

“How unfortunate,” Estancia said, “but I am not in the mood to do any favors for you, Señor. You will die bound like the animal you are.”

Frank's jaw tightened. Fear made his heart hammer in his chest. Despite the cool nerves with which he had been blessed, the nerves that had helped him to survive this long in a hazardous time and a perilous land, he was as human as the next man, and he couldn't stare death in the face without feeling something. He had never been afraid of the mere act of dying. Hell, anybody could do that. Everybody did, sooner or later. And even though he had broken his share of commandments along the way, he wasn't that worried about what the afterlife might hold in store for him, either. What he hated, what his heart and soul and brain raged against even though he showed none of the turmoil going through him, was the fact that he would never see his friends and his loved ones again. Tyler Beaumont and old Luke Perkins, Mercy and Victoria, even his son Conrad, who had no real use for him . . . At a time like this, it would have meant so much to see them again, if only for a moment....

And then there were the things left undone, the true regrets in life. He would have liked to help set things straight here in the border country, to restore justice and see to it that hydrophobic skunks like Wedge and Estancia didn't escape what they had coming to them. All his life Frank Morgan had stood up to evil wherever he found it. He wasn't ready to give up that fight.

But Sergeant Lopez shouted out, “Ready ...” and the firing squad lifted their rifles. “Aim!” the sergeant said, and the Rurales nestled their cheeks against the smooth wooden stocks of their weapons and squinted over the barrels as they settled their sights on the chest of the man who stood with his back pressed against the adobe wall. As Lopez paused with a Latin flair for the dramatic, Frank's eyes darted to Estancia's face and saw the smug satisfaction there.

It couldn't happen like this, Frank thought. By God, it just
couldn't
!

Sergeant Lopez opened his mouth to shout, “Fire!”

But before the word could escape, a shot rang out and Lopez's head jerked backward as a bullet hole appeared in the center of his forehead. His black sombrero flew up in the air. The sergeant's body hit the ground first, dead as it could be.

Just like that, all hell broke loose. Shots roared and blasted and men yelled and cursed. Hoofbeats thundered as mounted men swept around the corner of the barn and charged through the ranks of the Rurales, laying waste to them.

Frank saw Estancia turn and sprint toward the house, trying desperately to escape. Billowing clouds of dust and powder smoke rolled between Frank and the officer, and he couldn't see Estancia anymore.

The rapid barking of a six-gun somewhere above him made Frank lift his head and peer upward. He saw that a wooden door set in the wall of the barn to allow access to the hayloft had been swung open, and someone in there thrust a revolver out and squeezed off several shots, dropping a couple of Rurales who ran toward Frank, evidently intent on gutting him with their bayonets. As Frank's somewhat stunned brain thought back over the events of the past few moments, he realized that the shot that had killed Sergeant Lopez had come from the hayloft, too. That had been the signal for the attack that now drove the Rurales into a full-scale retreat.

A thick wooden beam stuck out from the wall above the hayloft door. A rope and block-and-tackle arrangement was fastened to it so that bales of hay could be lifted to the loft that way. As Frank watched, a black-clad figure leaned out, grasped that rope, and swung down to land lightly in front of him. Frank found himself staring into dark eyes above a black silk bandanna pulled up to serve as a mask over the lower half of his rescuer's face.

Then a knife flashed in the hands of the Black Scorpion, cutting the bonds around Frank's wrists, and he was free.