Deadfall (22 page)

“I feel it is about time I told you the reason for my interest in you, Chico,” said the Don.

“Yes, sir,” said Henry Ellis, “I'd like to know that.”

“Many years ago,” the Don began, “I had a son about your age . . . twelve, is it?”

“No, sir,” said the boy, “I'm eleven.”

“Eleven, twelve, it really doesn't matter,” said Don Sebastian. “Just the fact that I lost my only son when he was close to your age is what concerns me.”

“I'm sorry for your loss, Don Sebastian,” said Henry Ellis, “I truly am. Can I ask how he died?” added the boy. “Your son?”

“Through my stupidity,” said Don Sebastian. “I allowed him to accompany me on a cattle drive.”

His voice began to waver.

“We were over halfway to our destination,” the Don continued, “which was Matamoros. We were driving the cattle along the Mexican bank of the Rio Bravo, when we were attacked by a band of renegade Comanche warriors. A full-fledged battle broke out between my
vaqueros
and those Comanches . . . bullets were flying one way, arrows the other . . . the cattle stampeded in even another direction. I thought we were all going to be killed, until a small band of Texas Rangers rode into the altercation.”

Henry Ellis's mouth turned up into a smile.

“Those three Rangers had the renegade Indians running for their lives before my
vaqueros
and I realized what had happened,” said the Don. “All we could do was watch from our position as the Rangers chased those Comanches all the way across the river, where they eventually caught up to them and fought some more, until they surrendered.”

“My grampa was a Texas Ranger, Don Sebastian,” said the boy.

“I know,” said the Don, nodding.

“So what happened after that?” Henry Ellis wanted to know.

The two of them were now stopped at the side of the large fountain in the center of the courtyard.

“I looked around for my son,” said Don Sebastian, “but he was nowhere to be seen.”

Henry Ellis could only stare at the Don with wide eyes. He had no words.

“Finally,” said the Don, “one of my
vaqueros
rode up to my side with the body of my son in his arms. Chico had been killed by a single bullet during the conflict. He was dead.”

“Gosh,” said Henry Ellis, “I am really, truly sorry.”

“It was so long ago, Chico,” said Don Sebastian. “Chico,” he said again, “that is what I called him . . . my son . . . Chico.”

“Did those Rangers ever come back to talk to you about your son's death?” asked Henry Ellis.

The Don shook his head.

“No, Chico,” he said. “Not one of them ever made a move to come over to our side of the river to explain.”

“You're sure of that?”

“I am very sure, Chico,” said the Don. “But one of my men had seen the man who had fired the bullet that took my son's life . . . It was one of those Texas Rangers who killed my Chico.”

“I'm sorry it happened, Don Sebastian, I really am,” said the boy.

“Then you know what I am going to say next, don't you, Chico?”

The boy nodded—a tear broke away from the corner of one of his eyes, trickling down his cheek.

“It was your grandfather who killed my son, Chico . . . and that is why you are here.”

Henry Ellis felt as if the Don had punched his fist directly into his soul.

“An eye for an eye, Chico . . . a grandson for a son.”

 

 

All three of Sergeant Stone's weapons boxes were stacked near the campfire. Charley sat beside the sergeant and Roscoe, the three of them slicing pieces of roasted prairie dog from a spit. The rest of the crew were gathered around the threesome, eating and listening to Charley as he finished telling another one of his tales.

“And that's a fact, for sure . . . me, Roscoe, and Feather rode right into that dang shootin' match 'tween them Mexican cowboys and that hunting party of Comanche warriors until we cut every one of 'em out from that herd and chased 'em back across the river into Texas. We finally caught up to 'em and darn near sent the whole bunch to their happy hunting grounds.”

“Did you ever go back across the border to see if those Mexican cowboys were all right?” asked Kelly.

“Didn't have the time,” said Charley. “Or the manpower. Remember, there was eight of them Comanches left, and only three of us Rangers. Just getting 'em all up to the Laredo Ranger Office was difficult enough for us. Right, boys?”

“You bet it was,” said Roscoe.

“Darn right,” said Feather at almost the same time.

“Charley,” Kelly said, “isn't it about time you let us all in on the rest of your idea on how we're getting Henry Ellis out of that
hacienda
?”

“You don't figger on rushin' the place, do ya, Boss?” said Feather.

“I'm good with a gun,” said Holliday, “but not against more'n a hundred men or so at a time.”

“No, fellas,” said Charley. “We won't be rushing the place.”

“If you think we need more help,” said Fuerte, “I could go to the
hacienda
workers' village and find out if they might be willing to provide us with some assistance.”

“That might work,” said Charley, “if those workers feel the Don has done them some kind of an injustice. But the only
hacienda
workers I ever saw looked like they were pretty content doing their jobs, plus they appeared to be pretty well fed, too.”

“Just the same,” said Fuerte, “the field workers and
vaqueros
could very easily be a little disappointed that Don Sebastian doesn't let them keep any of the crops they grow, or the cattle they raise, and I'll wager he only pays them a pittance to get by on. They're forced to buy their supplies from a Mexican version of an American company store, and most of them are in debt to the Don with no way of ever paying him off.

“Why don't I ride over to that village tomorrow, and at least give it a try?” added Fuerte. “I am one of them . . . I am a Mexican . . . I think like they do . . . I speak more than just their language.”

“If you're willing, Roca, I can't stop you. Rod,” Charley called out, “go with Roca, if you can . . . make sure that nothing happens to him.”

“I will be all right on my own, Señor Charley.”

Fuerte broke open his Smith & Wesson revolver and checked the cartridges in the cylinder. He snapped it shut, in the closed, ready-to-fire position, so it was all set for action. “I will talk to them, Charley,” he said. “Tomorrow . . . when there is time for me to ride over there.”

 

 

Henry Ellis's mind was wandering.

He had washed his face and hands upon entering the
hacienda
, and after that he had met Don Sebastian at the long table for supper. Don Sebastian had asked him if he felt ill, to which the boy had answered, no, that he was probably just overly tired.

“Well, eat your supper, Chico,” said Don Sebastian, “then we shall take another walk around the courtyard. By then, you may be feeling better.”

Henry Ellis toyed with his food when it was served. He found it very difficult to keep his mind on what he was doing.

 

 

The recollection unfolded in his anxious brain like a precious treasure map, displaying each piece of its puzzle, one fold at a time, one crease at a time, one panel at a time, until the map was fully opened in front of his mind's eye.

The whole picture ultimately revealed to the boy was a recognizable old dirt road in the Texas Big Bend area where his grampa Charley had taken him hunting on several occasions.

In these semiconscious thoughts, Henry Ellis was riding alongside his grandfather, a borrowed deer rifle resting across the pommel of his saddle. His grandfather was doing the same with his own hunting rifle.

It wasn't too long before Charley spotted an eight-point buck standing proud and erect on a precipice about forty yards in front of them. Charley signaled the boy to rein up and stay perfectly still. Henry Ellis did just that.

Charley raised his rifle and took aim—the boy did the same—he would stand by to render a second shot if it was necessary.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, coming from somewhere nearby, with the bullet lifting a large chunk of soil from the ground between the two of them and flinging it into the air. Both horses reared back, spoiling Charley's aim and dumping the boy onto the ground at the same time.

“Grab your horse's reins, Henry Ellis,” Charley called out. “Don't let him get away.”

The boy caught hold of a dangling rein. But before he could gather the second one in his other hand, another shot echoed from the mountains around him, with the bullet slicing the first leather strap into two pieces.

“Forget the horse,” yelled Charley. “Just find some cover as fast as you can.”

A third bullet slammed into the butt of Charley's rifle, knocking the weapon from his grasp, but at the same moment, allowing him to dismount.

He grabbed his grandson by the jacket collar, then he dove behind a small rock formation with both of them coming out of it no worse for wear.

“Who is it, Grampa?” asked Henry Ellis.

“I don't rightly know just yet,” said Charley, who was now snaking his way to the corner of a large boulder, trying to get a view of their attacker.

Henry Ellis watched his grandfather as he slowly edged his way around the rock.

Another shot was fired; the bullet ricocheted off the rock in front of Charley's face, spraying fine, sandlike granules into his eyes.

Immediately Charley's hands covered his face. He brushed at his eyelids in an attempt to clear away the stinging particles. He turned in the boy's direction.

“I can't see, Henry Ellis,” he said. “I can't see for the life of me.”

Henry Ellis scooted over beside his grandfather. He had pulled his handkerchief from a back pocket and now held it out to Charley.

The boy quickly saw his error; Charley couldn't see anything at all. Henry Ellis took his grandfather's hands into his own and laid the handkerchief across the palm of the older man's hand.

“Thank you, Henry Ellis,” said Charley. “I'll have these old eyes back in seeing order in no time. Right now, it's going to all be up to you to get whoever it is up there that's shooting at us.”

The boy pulled his own rifle in closer to his chest. He levered a cartridge into the chamber.

“That's good, son,” said Charley, reaching out for his grandson, then patting the boy's knee. “I know you can get her done without me. You're on your own now, Henry Ellis. Do your old grampa justice.”

Another shot coming from the higher ground above them dug into the ground behind the two, kicking up a rooster tail of sand that rained down on both of them this time.

“Keep your eyes closed, boy,” said Charley, “unless you want to end up like me. Now, my suggestion is—”

“I know what to do, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis. “I'm just afraid he'll come down here while I'm circling around and you won't know that he's here.”

“That's a chance we'll both have to take,” said Charley. “Why don't you just get going . . . Don't waste any more time fretting on it.”

Henry Ellis leaned in and gave his grandfather a pat on the shoulder.

Charley managed a small smile. He cocked the old Walker in his boot top before removing it.

“Now get-a-going . . . I'll be safe right here. I'll just fire off a shot or two every other minute or so to make him think both of us are still right here behind these rocks. Now, go on . . . Get,” he added.

Henry Ellis surveyed the immediate area. His eyes eventually dropped to a crevasse between two boulders over to the right of where Charley was leaning.

He stayed low on his belly and slithered over to the narrow space. He stopped—took one final look back—then, using his elbows, he crawled his way on his arms and knees into the gap between the boulders, disappearing into some underbrush.

Charley realized he was alone. The first thing he did was to fire off a shot in the direction from which the last bullet had come.

The ambusher returned several bullets, hitting nothing but dirt a few yards away from Charley.

The ex-Ranger cocked his pistol once again and fired another shot.

Meanwhile, Henry Ellis had begun his large circle around the area, hoping he might get a glimpse of the rifleman before the assailant saw him. There was another shot or two exchanged between Charley and the attacker, which gave Henry Ellis a chance to advance further on with his plan.

Back where Henry Ellis had left him, Charley picked up his rifle and levered in another round. He fired off a shot.

When he went to cock the rifle again he could tell by the sound that no brass had been inserted into the proper position—he'd run out of ammunition.

Charley reached into a pocket of the old hunting jacket he was wearing and pulled out some more bullets. With his eyes still blinded, he loaded all seven of them into the rifle, levered in a shell, then fired again.

Another bullet was returned, hitting a rock beside Charley with a heavier velocity than the other bullets that had been fired early on.

This one had come from an entirely different direction—the man was closer than before.

Charley sensed someone was behind him.

“Henry Ellis,” he called out. A chill ran up his spine.