Deadfall (18 page)

“Get your lazy rear ends up, you slackers,” yelled Charley. “The gold is gone. Those bandits stole it right out from under our noses.”

 

 

Charley explained it all to the others over jerky and coffee, telling them that there was absolutely no way to have let them know what was going on without arousing the suspicions of the intruders.

“Well, what're we waitin' around here fer, if ya know which way they went?” said Feather.

“Oh, they'll be back,” said Charley. All we have to do is stay right here where we are and get ready for a fight . . . then we just wait for them to come back.”

“Fer heaven's sake, Mr. Sunday,” said Holliday, “they got our gold. Why on earth would they want to come back here again?”

“Because after you yahoos killed off them wine bottles we found last night, and either dozed off or passed out, I took it upon myself to lighten that load of gold a mite, then I filled it back up with something to take up the empty space. After that, I put a single layer of gold on top of it all so it'd look like the whole cart was still filled with treasure.”

“So, what makes ya think those bandits'll even look in the cart again before they get to wherever they're goin'?” said Feather.

“Because there's not one man alive I know of who wouldn't have the greedy urge to run his fingers through a chest full of Spanish gold treasure if he got the chance. These guys aren't any different than the rest of us . . . and that's a fact.”

 

 

Out on the trail, Bedoya was doing just that. He had halted his column of men and ridden back to where the burro and cart were located at the tail end.

He dismounted, then he dropped to his knees, throwing back the oilskin cover. Next, he was digging his hands into the treasure trove.

A look of complete disgust crossed the bandit leader's face.

He slowly pulled his hands and arms out of the cart to reveal that they were covered in slushy, green, watery, horse manure—the substance Charley had used to replace the gold he had removed from the cart.

 

 

Don Roberto and his
vaqueros
rode over the summit of a slight hill and were confronted by the abandoned Mexican army fort in the near distance. The Don raised his hand to stop his troops, while Luis Hernandez was sent on ahead to scout.

They waited about fifteen or twenty minutes after the ranch foreman had entered the gates of the fort. The Don was about to give the order for the rest of them to proceed with caution, when Luis appeared, riding out of the gate, then turning and galloping back toward the group. He carried something in his right hand.

As he slowed his horse and reined up in front of Don Roberto and the others, he held up the object he'd been carrying. It was a hand-scribbled sign that read

 

 

It was signed, Charles Abner Sunday.

“When I first entered the fort,” said Luis in Spanish, “I ignored this warning sign in my haste to search every inch inside . . .” He doubled over in pain, yet he continued. “It was only when I was leaving . . . that I took the time to read this warning. I do not understand English that good, but I know the word poison. By then, it was too late . . .” He doubled over again, with even more pain. “I had already taken several swallows from a ladle in a bucket I had come across in there. So, I knew that . . . by then, I was . . . a dead man.”

With that, he fell forward, tumbling from his saddle.

The Don caught the sign before it, too, fell.

“No one drink any water in or near this fort,” he ordered. He dismounted and knelt beside Luis. Two other men were already at the man's side. They both gave the Don somber looks.

“He is dead,” said one of the men.

Everyone present removed their hats, then crossed themselves.

“Bury him,” said the Don. “Save his clothing and his Saint Christopher for his wife and family.”

The two men picked up the body and moved it to the side of the road. Four others joined them with small shovels and began digging a grave, while another began to unclasp the chain around his neck.

The Don stood there quietly, contemplating the signature on the sign.

“Charles Abner Sunday,” he mumbled to himself. “From where do I recognize that name?”

One of his older
vaqueros
nudged his horse closer to the Don.

“What is it, Ernesto?” said Don Roberto.

The one called Ernesto dismounted, facing his employer. He removed his hat, revealing a full head of white hair.

“I have meet this man, Charles Abner Sunday . . . it was a long time ago,” said Ernesto. “When I was employed at a cattle ranch across the river. At that time, this Charles Abner Sunday was a Texas Ranger. A man known to everyone for his bravery and courage.”

“Of course,” said Don Roberto with a sigh of relief. “He is the father of the woman who was abducted . . . the wife of Kent Pritchard, who was coming to visit me. I remember her husband telling me about Señor Sunday when he was here in Mexico a few years ago. Do you think this Charles Abner Sunday is here in Mexico, Ernesto? Do you think it is Charles Sunday who we have been following?”

“Don Roberto,” said Ernesto, “I not only think he is here . . . I think he has brought people with him to assist him in his search for his daughter.”

“And I think we should not waste any more time standing around talking,” said the Don. “This Charles Abner Sunday might just need our assistance.”

 

 

“What did I tell you?” said Charley. “They came back.”

He was standing behind a large boulder near the front of the cave and was speaking gently into Roscoe's ear.

The two of them were positioned to the right, inside the cavern's mouth. Holliday and Feather had split up—with Holliday on his belly behind a low, half-buried boulder in the cave's center, and Feather, perched on a protected ledge high above, about halfway up the left wall of the cave's interior.

All of them were armed with both pistol and rifle to choose from during the expected exchange of gunfire. Presently, they all held their Winchesters at the ready.

Charley's warning had made them aware of just how close the altercation was to happening.

Feather slid a few more cartridges into his rifle. With a swift single jerk on the lever, he sent the first projectile into its position in front of the rifle's firing pin. Then he set the weapon aside and drew his Texas Ranger–issue Walker Colt, checking the six loads inside the chambers. He spun the cylinder, then closed the gate.

Holliday did the same with his saddle gun, then he rolled onto his back, tucking the rifle under his left arm while he drew his right-hand pistol, opened the gate, rolled the cylinder, and checked the chambers. After that, he reversed the rifle to his right arm, then checked his left-hand six-shooter. A quick roll back onto his belly, and he was ready for bear.

Like Charley, both Roscoe and Feather were using their Texas Ranger–issue revolvers—Walker Colts. Although the large revolvers only fired six hand-packed conical bullets before they had to be reloaded again, Charley, Roscoe, and Feather had always been known to hit their mark with every pull of the trigger. They were such expert pistol shots, that most often, reloading during a fight was never needed.

Bedoya appeared, leading his men as close to the cavern's giant entrance as he could.

He had just given them the dismount order, when all hell broke loose, coming from the cave's opening. Flaming bullets rained down on the bandit gang, with every single, spinning piece of hot lead burrowing into human flesh. Several
bandidos
got off some return fire, but no one they were aiming at was hit.

When the fusillade subsided, Bedoya twirled his
sombrero
in the air—a signal to all his remaining followers to retreat until they could find adequate cover.

That was when Charley called for the second curtain of fire to be launched. The four Americans blasted away with their Winchesters, catching even more bandits in the same angles of cross fire as they had in the first volley.

By then, Bedoya and some of the remaining gang members were scurrying from one place to another in complete confusion. Eventually they were able to shoot back from the surrounding area where they had found some natural defenses to shield themselves.

Most of the Mexicans took pride in their marksmanship, but before they could find a target, swirling lead shapes drilled into their skulls and torsos.

By then Charley and his men had narrowed the number of bandits down to Bedoya and two others. The one called Bernardo was still in charge of the burro and the two-wheeled cart.

Feather took his chance and fired—his bullet caught the man directly between the eyes. Bernardo dropped immediately to the ground, leaving the dangling rope hanging loose from one of the burro's harness rings.

Holliday's rifle had run out of ammunition, so he'd switched to his matching six-guns. As one of the final gang members stood up and started running toward a loose horse, the old Wild West showman stepped out into the open and fired one gun after the other, until the running man was cut down in his tracks.

Now there was only one of the bandits left—Bedoya—and he wanted no more.

He held up a rifle with a piece of white material tied to the barrel. After several waves of the makeshift surrender flag, Bedoya stood up so his adversaries could see that he was unarmed and giving up.

Charley stepped out from behind the boulder he had been using as cover. He motioned with his gun for Bedoya to come forward.

The Mexican gang leader did. Following Charley's orders, he dropped his weapons and kicked them out of the way. He continued walking toward Charley with a face filled with confusion.

“You have killed all of my
compadres
,” he said softly as he moved toward the cave's entrance. “And I could have prevented it myself. Why?”

He dropped to his knees and looked up to the sky.

“Why,” he continued, “why did I not give the order to kill every one of these
gringos
last night when they were sleeping?”

“That wouldn't have saved you,
amigo
,” said Charley. “Because one of us was awake . . . me,” he said. “And I had this old Walker Colt aimed directly at your
huevos
. . . just in case you did give your men that order.”

Charley, Roscoe, Feather, and Holliday rode through the
hacienda
gates with Bedoya behind them on his horse. His neck was in a noose with the other end tied to Charley's saddle horn. His hands were bound tightly behind him.

Another rope had been looped around Bedoya's belt several times and was helping him lead the burro and the two-wheeled cart it pulled.

There was an obvious strain on the wheels of the tiny cart, indicating to all that it carried a very heavy load.

Don Sebastian had received word from one of his outriders that the four Texans were returning. He had time to prepare himself and was now standing in his carriage with Armendariz at his side, inside the gates. Andrés, his captain of the guard, had also moved the members of the outfit that Charley had left behind inside the gates.

“Welcome back, Señor Sunday,” said the Don. “I see that in addition to whatever ransom money you have brought for me, you also bring me someone I have not seen in many years.”

He indicated Bedoya at the end of the rope.

The Don turned to Andrés, his captain of the guard.

“Untie Señor Bedoya and bring him to me at once,” he said.

Andrés and several of the guard began moving toward Bedoya.

Charley immediately drew the Walker Colt from his boot top.

When he did, there was the sound of many rifles being cocked at the same moment.

“No, Mr. Sunday,” said Don Sebastian. “You will please hand over your pistol to Andrés, my captain of the guard. And the others . . . they will also please give their weapons back to Andrés.”

Charley nodded to Roscoe, Holliday, and Feather.

“Do what the man says, gentlemen,” he said.

Andrés and three guards stepped forward. The Texans turned over their revolvers and rifles.

“Thank you, Mr. Sunday,” said Don Sebastian, nodding to Charley, then leaning closer to face him. “I expected you much sooner.”

“Sooner?” Roscoe whispered to Charley. “I thought he gave us two days.”

“He did,” said Charley.