Deadfall (12 page)

Holliday, Feather, and Roscoe stopped digging for a moment to take note of their findings. Farther back in the cave they had discovered what remained of the body of the Spanish soldier who had belonged to the helmet. He was now only bones—with an Indian spear sticking out of the ground where his heart once pumped blood. The man's partially intact skeleton was stretched out on its back beside his armor. The dead soldier's rotting clothing was draped over his rib cage, torso, arms, and legs. The knee-high leather boots he had been wearing when he died looked almost as if they could still be worn. But when Holliday attempted to remove one of the decaying leather leggings, it crumbled into dust from the pressure of his grip.

Alongside the skeleton, and next to the hole in the cave floor the three men had been digging, was a padlocked iron box.

“Don't ya think it's about time we opened that thing up and looked ta see what's inside?” said Holliday.

“He's right, you know,” said Feather. “Maybe there's enough gold in there ta make us all rich. And if there is, or isn't, we should stop diggin' either way.”

Roscoe said, “Whether there's gold inside that box, or nothin' at all, we still gotta leave it here until we can bring Charley and the others back and show 'em what we found.”

“Why's that?” Feather wanted to know.

“Because Charley told me that since we're guests in another country, there are certain things we shouldn't do without checking it out with the Mexican government first.”

“What kinda things?” Feather wanted to know.

“Stealin', fer one,” Roscoe said. “And that's the same as thinkin' somethin' is ours when we know damn well it ain't.”

“Well,” said Holliday, “none of what we found belongs to the Mexican government, that's fer sure. Maybe the Spanish government . . . ?”

“Maybe we oughta open her up now, just so we know what we're talkin' about,” said Feather.

“I don't know why not,” said Roscoe. “Go ahead. Just remember . . . whatever it is, we have ta leave it here.”

“You two back off a bit,” said Holliday as he drew one of his nickel-plated revolvers, aiming it at the large, ornate padlock.

The men backed away just as Holliday fired. Bits and pieces of the rusted padlock were spun away by the glancing bullet, leaving the iron box free to be opened.

The men scrambled back to the box, all of them grabbing the lid and flinging it back.

The first thing revealed was a sheet of thick copper with the Spanish Crest engraved on its face.

All three men let out sighs of disappointment.

That was until Roscoe reached in and removed the copper sheet.

There it was—glistening with the reflection of the campfire's flames: pounds of silver and gold coins, sparkling jewelry, and silver goblets—enough treasure to make rich men of the trio, even when split three ways.

“Close 'er up,” said Roscoe. “Close 'er up tight an' start makin' a damn good map a' how we get back ta this cave.”

All Holliday and Feather could do was show disgust at their friend's decision.

“Go on now,” said Roscoe. “Put 'er back in the hole and throw some dirt on it. We gotta meet Charley and the others at that old Mexican fort pretty soon. Remember?”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Colonel Alfonso Natividad Armendariz y Rodriguez—the man who had become infamous throughout northern Mexico as the spineless brother of a celebrated bandit hero, had been born in the year 1848 to sharecropper parents in the Mexican state of Durango. According to legend, he turned mercenary when he was in his teens. He was supporting himself through those dubious means in the neighboring state of Chihuahua when the Revolt of 1877 occurred allowing Porfirio Díaz to become president of Mexico once again. Armendariz was twenty-nine years old at the time. It was then he made the decision to join his brother, and he became a ranking leader in the brother's gang of mercenaries.

Still a coward at heart, Armendariz left his brother's bandit gang soon after he'd participated in his first altercation with government troops.

He took a small group of uneducated peasant bandits with him when he deserted. He formed those followers into his own gang and began offering his services to anyone for the right price. Armendariz's climb to a position of power wasn't necessarily something he had accomplished himself. But he had an animalistic charisma, he was clever, and he appeared to be full of life when observed by outsiders, which had helped his celebrity grow. Though he lacked interest in politics, he had become a leader of men through his desire to make money any way he could.

Rod, Kelly, and Henry Ellis had been prisoners in Armendariz's high-desert camp for three hours before they ever saw the notorious
bandido
. When they finally did see him, they hadn't a clue it was Armendariz at all.

The image of the gang leader Rod had kept in his mind for the past few years had come from a blurry newspaper photograph he'd seen in a San Antonio café some years earlier. It had been a posed, news-camera photograph of a Mexican man on horseback, wearing a large
sombrero
with two brass and lead-filled bandoliers slung across his chest. The rest, Rod's mind had created over the years: the handsome, mustachioed face, the twinkle in the man's eyes, the smile, even the wink the horseman was giving the newspaper readers from his triumphant position in the saddle as he twirled a slender
cigarillo
in his long fingers.

Now, the man Rod was looking at across the busy compound, the man with the thickset body who hobbled along on makeshift crutches, the one Manolito had pointed out to them as his beloved leader, Colonel Alfonso Armendariz, wasn't matching up at all with Rod's mental image of the bandit leader. This Armendariz—the real Armendariz—was shorter, well under the six feet or more Rod had imagined him to be. He was stocky, maybe even fat, and his hair looked very much like that of the Seminole-Negroes who lived in that area: thick and matted. He also had a small black mustache, not the full, droopy style worn by most of the other men.

But it was his eyes Rod would later come to remember him by the most. Colonel Alfonso Natividad Armendariz y Rodriguez's piercing dark eyes made the young Indian shiver all over—just the thought of those eyes made him feel totally inept.

 

 

Later on, after the prisoners had been fed and night had fallen over the bandit camp, Henry Ellis had managed to talk one of the guards into bringing him some scraps for the puppy, while at the same time watching exactly where the man had gone to find the leftover bits.

As the boy watched the puppy gobble up its meal, he turned to Rod and Kelly who were sitting to his left on some large boulders they were using as a place to rest.

The trio was being kept in a triangular, fenced-in area. A small cove in one of the many rock formations offered the perfect place for an improvised cell. Wire cattle fencing was stretched across the open front of the recess, creating a third wall, with barbed wire laced between the squares of the first barrier's links.

While Rod and Kelly talked among themselves, Henry Ellis wandered off to check out the periphery of their little niche.

He stepped off the footage of the fence, plus the security of the enclosure next to the rocks and boulders at each end of the wire barrier. When he got in close to study the thickness of the fencing, he looked up for a split second and found himself face to face, through the wire, with Colonel Armendariz himself.

The surprise of the extreme closeness made him step back a few paces.

“What are you planning to do,
boy
?” said Armendariz. “Are you planning to escape from me once again?”

“Oh, no, mister . . . Gosh no . . . I mean, Colonel . . . Armendariz,” said Henry Ellis. “I was only getting familiar with this space where my friends and I are being kept prisoner.”

“Well,” said the Colonel, “please get any ideas of running away out of your mind for now. It has taken me too long to capture you in the first place. I would not be pleased if you caused me even more trouble by escaping again.”

“No . . . no, sir,” said the boy. “I would never do that to you a second time.”

Armendariz started to turn away.

“Colonel, sir?” said Henry Ellis.

“What is it, boy?” answered Armendariz. “Can you not see that I am a very busy man?”

“Uh, Colonel,” said Henry Ellis. “I was just wondering how you got hurt.”

“Oh, these,” said Armendariz, indicating his crutches. “I will tell you if you promise me you will tell no one else.”

“I promise you, Colonel . . . You have my word.”

Armendariz leaned in very close to Henry Ellis before he spoke. So close, in fact, that the boy could smell the odor of the cigars he'd been smoking, as well as the sickening stench of tequila fermenting in his stomach.

“I fell off my horse,” he whispered.

He began to laugh.

Then Henry Ellis started to laugh.

Finally Armendariz's chortle grew louder and louder, coming from his belly, until his eyes began to tear up.

He raised a finger to his lips.

“Shhhhh,” he said.

Then he turned and hobbled away.

Henry Ellis moved back to where Rod and Kelly were sitting.

“You made a new friend?” said Rod.

“I'm going to need you two to take care of Buster Number Two for me,” said Henry Ellis. “I've found a way out . . . except the space is only big enough for a person my size.”

Rod and Kelly leaned forward—they appeared to understand.

Henry Ellis went on, “I'll steal a horse and try to get to that Mexican fort where we're all supposed to meet. Then I'll bring my grampa and the others back to help get you both out of here.”

“That sounds pretty dangerous,” said Kelly.

“Who else can go?” said Henry Ellis. “The space I'm going to try to escape through is not even big enough for you, Miss Kelly.”

“Let him go,” said Rod to his wife. “I know he can do it.”

The boy handed Rod the dog's makeshift leash.

Kelly picked up the animal and fastened an end of the rawhide strip around its neck.

“If the guards come again, we will tell them you are sleeping.”

Rod took off his coat and wrapped it around some rocks, then he shaped it until it resembled a human form. He set it down behind one of the boulders so only one part of it could be seen.

“I want to thank you two for being so good to me,” said Henry Ellis.

The three of them hugged.

The boy made his way along the fence line until he disappeared behind the rock formation on the right where the fencing followed its contour. Squeezing his body a few more feet between the rocks and the fence, he dropped to his knees, then down to his belly. Once there, he slithered under the wire like a snake. Whenever it could, the barbed wire took a bite out of his shirt and trousers.

Once outside the confines of the makeshift jail, Henry Ellis slipped on through the bandit camp until he came to the picket line of horses.

He knelt down in the shadows as a guard made his rounds.

It wasn't long before the boy had one of the animals untied and was leading it away from the camp. When he thought he had gone far enough, he swung up onto the horse's back, then nudged the animal on down a sandy dune that led him even farther away from the Armendariz camp.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

“Why didn't Henry Ellis take the puppy with him when he escaped from the bandit camp?” said Noel.

“He was afraid the pup might bark and give him away, stupid,” said her brother, Caleb.

Their great-grandfather cut into their conversation.

“First of all, Caleb,” said Hank, “your sister's not stupid. Her question about why the boy didn't take the puppy with him was perfectly all right for Noel to ask. I even wondered about that for a long, long time myself.”

“But I'll still bet he didn't want the pup barking and giving him away before he had gone far enough from the bandit camp,” said Caleb.

“He also didn't need to take the puppy with him when he knew he had a lot of hard riding ahead,” said Hank. “Plus, he knew the pup would be safe with Rod and Kelly . . . and he also knew that if the dog wasn't there behind the fencing making his puppy sounds, the bandits might get suspicious and take a closer look . . . and find out that Henry Ellis was missing.”

“Meeting the bandit chief must have been very scary for Henry Ellis,” said Evie. “If just looking at him bothered Rod, a grown-up, imagine what being face to face with him did to Henry Ellis.”

“Oh, Henry Ellis wasn't scared of Armendariz,” said Hank. “The bandit leader might have looked mean, but the boy could see when he was up close and talking to him that the bandit was all bluff and no bite.”

“I'm just glad he got away,” said Noel. “I sure hope he found his grampa Charley, though.”

“You just sit tight, li'l darlin',” said Hank. “Go get yourself another dessert. I'll be getting back to Henry Ellis in a minute or so.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

Don Roberto led his small band of
vaqueros
across the open desert toward some sketchy cloud formations that were forming on the western horizon. They were following the tracks of two horses. This particular trail had been a gamble for the Don, as the larger faction they'd been trailing had broken up into clusters of twos and threes heading out in different westerly directions.

A rider appeared in the distance, coming out of a towering pile of boulders. As the rider got closer, he was recognized as Luis Hernandez, the Don's foreman. As he reached the column of riders, Luis reined up sharp in front of Don Roberto.

“I follow the two sets of horses' hoofprints, plus those of a burro, as you asked me to do, Don Roberto,” said Luis. “Then I find hoofprints of a third horse joining the others.”

“Maybe it was one of their friends meeting them,” said Don Roberto.

“No,” said Luis, “I don't think so. This new horse, he has no shoes.”

“That could make him an Indian,” the Don said to Luis. “The only Indians in this part of the country are the Black-Seminoles. Our government has advised the citizens of Mexico to stay away from the Seminole-Negroes. It is probably better that we go back and choose another trail to follow. No matter who we follow, they are bound to lead us to Armendariz and my guests that he has abducted.”

The Don motioned for his men to do an about-face, then he and Luis rode to the other end of the column, where the Don instructed the riders to follow him.

 

 

Charley Sunday saw the Mexican fort for the first time as he and Roca Fuerte crested a low rise just fourteen miles from the trail they had been riding for the last day and a half. At Fuerte's suggestion, the two men had slowed their pace, and now they rode on toward the crumbling citadel at a more comfortable stride.

The fort had been constructed from the dirt on which it now stood. Adobe bricks not only made up the walls of the ancient stronghold, but adobe had also been used in the construction of other structures inside the fortification, as well as the several barracks buildings.

The old fort's adobe bricks had been rounded and chiseled by the weather through its many years of exposure to the harsh elements found in northern Mexico's unforgiving environment.

“From what I can make out,” said Charley as they neared the broken-down edifice, “we're more than likely the first members of the outfit to get here.”

Fuerte's eyes scanned the adobe walls, still a couple of hundred feet in front of them.

“I do not see any signs of life, Señor Charley,” he said. “None except for those wild burros over to the right of the main gate.”

“I'm not sure just how wild they are, Roca,” said Charley. “They could belong to someone who is already inside.”

“No,” Fuerte argued. “They look wild to me.”

The two men kept riding toward the ancient stronghold. Nothing except for the two burros moved.

As they approached the decaying wooden gate, Charley noticed that it was propped open halfway, then held in place by a dilapidated military wagon.

Charley nudged Dice to continue on, and they entered through the half-open portal.

Once inside the walls, they could see that they were alone, indeed, as each and every adobe building that faced the small parade ground had been left with doors wide open and stores scattered. Weapons, canteens, and several decaying bodies of Mexican army soldiers as well as their horses were lying here and there around the parade ground.

“I knew this fort was abandoned,” said Fuerte, “just not abandoned that short of a time ago.”

“It looks like a detachment of the federal army decided to use this place again recently,” said Charley. “But I wonder who it was they were using it to protect themselves from? I don't see any arrows . . . that eliminates an Indian attack. Plus there's no blood visible from bullet wounds on any of them.”

“Maybe we should check out the commanding officer's quarters,” said Fuerte. “There may be something there that might be able to tell us more.”

The two men roamed the crumbling fortress for a time and found nothing, except more woundless bodies.

“It could be they were poisoned,” said Fuerte when the two men met in front of the main building once again. “But not necessarily poisoned here at the fort. The original name for the land this garrison is built on was Dead Water Flats. That was because all the water the original builders discovered in the area turned out to be contaminated. When it was operating, the Mexican army used to bring fresh, barreled water to this fort by the wagonload.

“All I can figure is that these particular soldiers decided to use this fort again after its long abandonment, but somehow they weren't told in advance that the local water could kill them . . . and that is why they are all dead.”

“The water killed them?” said Charley.

“Man and animal have the need to drink every day, Señor Charley,” said Fuerte. “Every man and beast you see here took no longer to die than a half hour to forty-five minutes. The officers must have come across one of those tainted water holes just before they got here and let every man and animal have their fill. By the time they had started to settle inside these walls, the poison took effect.”

“There are two ways to prove what you say, Roca, my friend. One is to find some of that deadly water, and the other is to examine the fort's infirmary.”

 

 

They found the fort's infirmary near the storeroom. The small, one-room building contained even more dead.

“It is apparent to me,” said Fuerte, “that there was almost no time at all for the medical officer to treat these soldiers before he also died.”

Charley's eyes drifted across the room to where a body draped in a white coat lay with his face on the top of a desk. Underneath his chest was an open journal, in his hand, a writing pen.

Charley walked over to the body, lifted it up, and pulled the journal from under him. The pages were blank.

“You're right, Roca,” said Charley. “It looks to me like their medical officer consumed some of that poisoned water, like you said. Killed him dead, just like the others . . . before he could make out his report on the situation. And that's a fact. Come on, Roca,” Charley added, “we need to clear out some space for everyone to sleep when they get here.”

 

 

Mitchell Pennell and Sergeant Tobias Stone were the next to arrive at the abandoned fort, along with Elisabeth Rogers, who now rode the burro.

The threesome were met less than fifty yards from the main gate by Roca Fuerte, who had ridden out to greet them.

They exchanged a few words, then Fuerte led them toward, then through, the main gate. He explained to them the presence of the Mexican soldiers' bodies, while at the same time warning them to drink only from their own personal canteens.

When the newcomers were all the way inside the compound, they were greeted by Charley, who stood guard above them on the front wall.

“Pennell . . . Sergeant Stone,” he called down to them. “Welcome.” He turned to Fuerte. “Roca, come up here and relieve me so I can show our new arrivals where we set up our camp.”

Fuerte called out, “Yes, sir, Señor Charley. I will be there as soon as I can get these men a drink of safe water.”

Fuerte grabbed his canteen from his saddle and handed it to Pennell. The ex-convict took a healthy swig before passing the canteen to Elisabeth, then to Sergeant Stone.

“How'd you know the groundwater around here wasn't safe to drink?” questioned Charley as he climbed down from the wall to join the others. He passed Fuerte who was on his way up.

The sergeant answered, “They taught all of us Fort Clark soldiers to recognize bad water. It sure don't look like the Mexican army has the same kinda training, does it?”

“They're all dead,” Charley told him.

“We gonna bury 'em?” asked the sergeant.

“I figured we'll all pitch in tomorrow morning and dig one very big grave . . . use it for all of 'em, including the horses.”

“That's gonna be one hell of a hole,” said the sergeant. “It'll be nice to have more men.”

“I'll tell you what,” said Charley, “we'll not only wait until the others get here, we won't start digging until they do. I just hope the smell doesn't bother anyone tonight at suppertime . . . or while we're sleeping.”

Elisabeth, standing some distance away, caught Charley's eye.

“Who's the woman?” he asked the sergeant. “We came across a wagon on the trail,” he continued, “could it have belonged to her?”

“More than likely,” said Pennell. “We met her when we were captured by the Black-Seminoles and taken to their camp.”

“Seminole-Negroes?” questioned Charley.

“There's a bunch of 'em livin' down here in Mexico, Charley,” said the sergeant. “Pennell and me were caught off guard, and one of 'em got the drop on us. He took us prisoner and made us follow him to his camp. That's where we met up with Mrs. Rogers . . . they had rescued her after her wagon rolled over and her team got away.”

“Did I hear someone mention my name?” said Elisabeth, who had gotten to her feet and was now moving closer.

“That you did, ma'am,” said Charley, holding out his hand to her.

The two of them shook.

“I'm Elisabeth Rogers,” said Elisabeth.

“Charley Sunday,” said Charley, tipping his hat.

 

 

A little over an hour later, Elisabeth finished telling her story to Charley. She had filled him in on the circumstances that had brought her to Mexico, beginning with the morning her husband and son had been murdered by the gang of roving Mexican bandits. And her meeting up with more bandits upon entering Mexico, and having to kill two of them—plus overturning her wagon while trying to get away. She also told them about the short time she had spent with the Black-Seminoles, until the Sergeant and Mitch Pennell were brought into the camp as prisoners of Billy July.

“Are you any good with a gun?” asked Charley when Elisabeth was done speaking.

“Like I told you, I've had to kill a couple of men just to get this far,” she answered.

“That's good to know,” said Charley. “You see,” he went on, “we're down here looking to find my daughter and her husband. They were abducted in Brownsville nearly a week ago by a gang of Mexican bandits. Our intent is to find the people who abducted them and free my family, then take them back to the United States. That may include having to use our guns to persuade the abductors . . . when we find them.”

Fuerte called out from his position on the wall, “Someone is coming, Señor Charley. It looks like three men, plus the chuckwagon.”

“We'll be right up and join you,” said Charley. “That should be Roscoe, Holliday, and Feather.”

Night had begun to fall when Elisabeth was telling her story. Now it had gotten much darker, which made it difficult for Roca Fuerte to identify the two riders and the wagon's driver from that distance.

Fuerte was joined by Charley, the sergeant, and Pennell on the wall. Charley had brought along a lantern. They all strained their eyes to see, until Charley was able to recognize the three men for sure as their friends.

He swung the lantern back and forth, then yelled out, “Roscoe, Feather, Holliday! Over here; it's Charley. Come through the front gate . . . I'll meet you just inside.”

Charley climbed down the steps, followed by the others.

Once the threesome had made it through the entrance gates, Charley held up the lantern and led them over to where the others had already set up a temporary camp.

After some anxious handshaking all around, Charley turned to Roscoe.

“I'm so glad you still got some vittles packed away in that wagon,” he said. “Break 'em out. We'll help you any way we can. I don't know about the others, but I'm starving.”

“I'll help with the cooking,” said Elisabeth. “If no one minds.”

Roscoe threw her a hard glare, which couldn't be seen by the others.

“Who's she?” Roscoe whispered to Charley.

“Doesn't matter,” said Charley, “she's one of us now. And try to be nice, Roscoe,” he added as he moved away.

“Why, I'd be more than pleased to have you assist me, ma'am,” said Roscoe. “And your name is . . . ?”

“Elisabeth Rogers,” said Elisabeth.

“Like I said, she's part of our outfit,” Charley called back to him over his shoulder. “She joined up with Sergeant Stone and Mitch Pennell out on the trail. She's got no other place to go.”

Roscoe untied, then slung, a gunnysack down from the wagon's bed. He began going through it.

“Can ya peel a potata, ma'am?” he asked her.

“I can peel as many potatoes as you've got,” she replied.

“We just can't use very much water, that's all,” said Charley, explaining the dead bodies all around. “The only good water we have around here is what's left in our canteens.”

“Hey,” Roscoe said, “maybe I'll just bake them 'taters in my Dutch Oven, 'stead a' boilin' 'em.” He yelled out, “Why don't you get me a cook fire goin', Feather . . . Grab the rest a' the boys and see if you can rustle up any firewood.”

Holliday moved in beside Charley.

“It was a rough couple a' days out there, Mr. Sunday,” said Holliday. “We had rain, wind, sun, and a lot a' different kinds a' weather.”