Deadfall (13 page)

“I'm sure you did, Holliday,” said Charley. “And so did we, if that matters anything to you. Now get out there with the others and find Roscoe some firewood.”

 

 

After supper, everyone sat around the fire relaxing and enjoying the cool evening. Charley moved in beside Fuerte and Roscoe with three cups of steaming coffee. He set them down on a flat rock and began to pack his pipe bowl with tobacco from his pouch.

“These makings just don't seem to taste right ever since Fuerte and me found ourselves neck deep in a ditch with the high water rising.”

He found a match and struck it on a nearby rock, bringing flame to the pipe's bowl. His continuous sucking and puffing kept the glowing, red-hot tobacco burning strong.

“I always keep some extra matches in my saddlebags, wrapped in oilskin. That's why I still got some that'll fire up. Took me half of one night to clean the mud out of my Walker Colt, dry it, oil it, then reload. Cleaning ourselves up wasn't that easy, either, was it, Roca?”

“We finally came across a little creek where the water was clear enough to use for bathing,” said Fuerte.

“And the rest is history . . . just look at us now?” said Charley. “I'm going to get up on that wall again and keep an eye out for Rod, Kelly, and Henry Ellis. The rest of you can either sleep out here in the yard . . . or inside the officers' quarters. Me and Roca cleaned it all up for you inside.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

Charley Sunday woke up a little before dawn to the echo of hooves on hard rock. A single horse was approaching. Charley was still on the wall where he'd fallen asleep several hours earlier. He raised his head and peered down the barrel of his rifle. In the setting moonlight, on the road leading up to the front gate of the adobe fort, was a lone rider. He was astride a spirited Mexican horse, riding bareback, headed toward the stronghold's entrance gate.

The sky was growing lighter with the beginning of the new day, finally allowing Charley to recognize the rider as his grandson, Henry Ellis.

A wide grin spread across the old rancher's face. He stood up, then he moved down the adobe steps two at a time.

“It's Henry Ellis,” he called out to the others who were still sleeping on the ground and inside the officers' quarters. “It's my grandson.”

The boy rode in through the gate, and as soon as he saw his grandfather, he slipped off the horse's back and ran to Charley, arms out.

“Grampa Charley,” he called out, then the two were hugging, patting one another on the back.

“I was so worried, Grampa,” said the boy. “I was afraid I wasn't going to find you.”

“Well, you found me, all right,” said Charley. “Now we're all together again.”

Henry Ellis's eyes dropped to the ground.

“We're all together, except for Rod and Kelly,” he said.

“What's happened to them, son?” said Charley.

“The three of us were captured by members of the Armendariz gang,” the boy said. “I was able to escape . . . But Rod and Kelly weren't that lucky.”

“Did you see your mother and father?” asked Charley. “Did you see Betty Jean?”

The boy shook his head.

“No, Grampa. I was looking for them the whole time I was there . . . Rod and Kelly, too. But we never saw them . . . or anything that might have led us to believe they were even there.”

Having heard Charley talking outside, Roscoe, Feather, Fuerte, and Elisabeth came out of the officers' quarters and moved over to join Charley and Henry Ellis.

“I'll bet you're mighty hungry, son,” said Roscoe. “I'll have breakfast goin' just as soon as Feather and some of the other gentlemen around here build me a fire.”

He moved away and Feather followed right behind.

“Would you know how to get back to that bandit camp if you had to, Henry Ellis?” asked Charley.

“Sure,” answered the boy. “Easy as pie.”

“Then that's where we're going, just as soon as we've all had something to eat.”

“What about the bodies?” Pennell yelled over to Charley.

“No time for digging now,” said Charley. “We'll just have to leave them where they are for the time being. Someone'll be along for 'em, I reckon.”

 

 

With Henry Ellis and his grandfather in the lead, the outfit, minus Rod and Kelly, once again found themselves riding in formation—a single column. Only now, they were following the boy's directions that they hoped would lead them to the Armendariz camp.

At times they rode at a trot, at others in a slow gallop. They rode over stone bridges, past seemingly deserted villages, down sandy trails, and through trickling ravines. They trudged across open land and through several deep canyons. They waded through even more ravines and streams, and would intermittently stop to rest. They would eat only when their horses began to show weariness and hunger. Otherwise, the small group continued on, forcing themselves to the limit. Roscoe, driving the chuckwagon, always seemed to be last, playing a game of “catch up” every inch of the way.

 

 

By late afternoon, after Henry Ellis had told Charley he thought they were pretty close to the Armendariz camp, the outfit gathered around some large boulders, in the shade of several spindly trees, for an afternoon break.

When they had rested and watered the horses, Charley had them back in their saddles and on the trail once again.

 

 

Don Roberto and his men entered the same small village Charley and Roca Fuerte had ridden into during the raging storm a day or so before.

The streets were still quite muddy, and several store owners, whose establishments were nothing more than covered stalls, were still shoveling, sweeping, and cleaning up their inventory before opening for business.

The Don spotted a Mexican army officer and some of his soldiers hitching several teams of horses to the army wagons that were standing out on the street. Don Roberto gave his men an order to stay where they were, while he and his foreman, Luis, rode over to where the officer was standing.

“Did you happen to see two strangers ride through this town in the last day or so?” asked the Don in his native language.

The officer pointed to the
cantina
across the plaza.

“Two men, one a
gringo
, one a Mexican, who no one had seen before, killed four
bandidos
over in that
cantina
two days ago, during the storm,” the officer replied in Spanish.

“Would anyone mind if my friend and I looked inside the
cantina
?” said Don Roberto. “We might be able to tell you who those strangers were if we can see the location where this shooting took place.”

“Go ahead,” said the officer. “The local police have already removed the bodies.”

“For that I am grateful,” said the Don. “But I would still like to see where the killings took place.”

He moved off toward the
cantina
with Luis following.

The double doors, closed during the storm, were now wide open as Don Roberto and his foreman, Luis Hernandez, strode through the swinging bat-wings.

Once inside, they had to wait a few seconds until their eyes became accustomed to the darkness within. When the Don was eventually able to see what was around him, he spotted the bartender leaning against the counter, polishing some glasses. Don Roberto moved over to the bar with Luis beside him.

Speaking in Spanish, he said, “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

The bartender looked up at the taller man.

“Yes . . .” He paused. “Well . . . I am the brother-in-law of the owner,” he answered. “But I am in charge.”

“Were you a witness to the shooting that took place in here recently?”

The bartender opened up, retelling his version of what he had seen. He was sure the dead men were members of the Armendariz gang, but he had a little trouble describing who the two men were that had done the killing.

“All I can really tell you about those two men who shot the bandits is that one was a white-haired Mexican . . . and the other one, an old
gringo
.”

“Well,” said Don Roberto, turning to Luis, “a
gringo
, he says. I am beginning to wonder just how many
gringos
are in our country searching for Armendariz and his men.”

“Maybe this
gringo
is a relative of those who were abducted,” said Luis.

“That is a possibility,” said the Don. “And if this old
gringo
is possibly related to the Pritchard family, then how is the white-haired Mexican involved?”

The bartender raised his hand to get the Don's attention.

“Señor,” he began. “I think I have seen the white-haired Mexican before . . . it was a long, long time ago, many years, but I think I recognized him from when the
Rurales
were protecting this town from the
bandidos
.”

“Fuerte,” said Don Roberto.

“No,” said the bartender. “That is not the name the old
gringo
called him. He called him Roca.”

After the outfit decided to take a break for the evening meal, Charley and Fuerte went on ahead to continue searching for Armendariz's camp. When the two men were close enough to smell food cooking, and to hear Spanish-speaking voices, they dismounted and tied off their horses.

“Come this way, Señor Charley,” whispered Fuerte.

Charley nodded, then he quickly followed his Mexican friend until they were both forced to crawl along on their bellies until the camp came into view.

The two men stopped—they both lay flat in the wild grass and peered into the camp. The first thing they took notice of was the makeshift jail—plus the fencing that made up the enclosure where the remaining two prisoners were still being kept. Both prisoners were now tied, back to back. Another precaution since the boy had been found missing.

“There's Rod and Kelly right over there,” whispered Charley. “Now where do you suppose they're keeping Betty Jean and Kent?”

Fuerte shrugged, then he motioned for Charley to duck down even lower as a rider approached the camp from behind them.

The rider was recognized by the guards before he was allowed to enter. Soon he was trotting over to a group of bandits who sat in the shade of a tent's overhanging flap, playing a card game.

When the rider approached, Armendariz stood up to greet him.

The two traded words in Spanish, then Armendariz sat down again, picking up his cards to resume playing his hand.

“What'd they say?” whispered Charley.

Roca Fuerte turned to him and spoke softly.

“Armendariz thanked the man for delivering the two
Americanos
to the
hacienda
of the person who paid for their abduction. Then the man asked the colonel just when they were going to move the other two Americans. He was told the boy had escaped. Just having to say the word ‘escaped' appeared to make the bandit leader uncomfortable.

“After a moment, Armendariz went on to say that the Indian and his woman were still prisoners and would go along with the rest of them when they all moved out later that afternoon.”

Before Fuerte could go on any further, he was interrupted by the barrel of a rifle poking at his temple. He turned slightly to see that Charley also had the barrel of a rifle pressed against the side of his head.

Two surly bandit guards had found the observers in the tall grass outside the bandit campsite. They urged the two infiltrators to stand, using their rifle barrels to prod them.

As they started to get to their feet, Charley jumped up fast, kneeing the man nearest him in the groin, then he brought his Walker Colt down hard on the man's head. Blood spurted as the guard went down.

At the same time, Fuerte had come up with a knife in his hand, gutting the other bandit with a single swipe. Fuerte caught the man before he fell, gently letting his body crumple to the ground.

Charley grabbed one of the rifles. “C'mon, Roca,” he whispered, “we need to get back to the others.”

Fuerte nodded and picked up the other man's rifle.

They found their horses, mounted, then moved silently away from the bandit encampment.

When Charley figured they had gone far enough that they wouldn't be heard, he spurred out faster. He was immediately followed by Fuerte.

The rest of the outfit was situated just far enough away that they did not hear the scuffle, plus it had been handled very quietly. When Charley and Fuerte appeared, coming from the outland beyond, Roscoe was the first to get to them.

“What'd you find out?” he asked. “Are they there?”

“We saw Rod and Kelly . . . and we learned that they have already sent my daughter and her husband on to the
hacienda
of the person who hired Armendariz and his gang to abduct them.”

Feather moved in beside his friends.

“Ain't we gonna break out Kelly and Rod anyway?” he asked.