Deadfall (26 page)

That left only a few guards to help close down the
fiesta
and send the villagers into their homes for the rest of the night. By that time, Charley and the members of his outfit were nowhere to be seen. They had removed themselves from the event, one by one, during the confusion that followed the Don's and the boy's departure.

 

 

Charley and the others drifted back to their campsite one by one, where they found their own clothing, then slipped into their everyday garments without making a sound.

Once everyone was accounted for, Charley called for a conference to discuss the evening's failure to rescue Henry Ellis, plus he asked if anyone had any ideas or new plans on how to get the boy out of Don Sebastian's hacienda.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN

Don Roberto and his followers rode in a column of twos along the bank of a deep, dry ravine. There were many visible indications that this yawning chasm might possibly fill with runoff during a heavy rain, and take its bubbling waters through the desert some distance before dumping it into a dry lake bed some miles east of where they were riding.

One of Don Roberto's vaqueros, Jose Chacon, who had been chosen to replace Luis Hernandez as foreman, had been sent off to scout the trail ahead. Now, as the group of men rounded a bend in the wash, Jose Chacon could be seen, not that far away, dismounted and down on one knee, studying something on the ground before him.

As Don Roberto and the others approached Chacon, he stood up and waved Don Roberto over to where he was waiting.

“What have you found, Jose?” the Don wanted to know.

The man pointed to the dried, once muddy, ground.

“There was some kind of an altercation in this area, Don Roberto,” said Chacon.

“How do you know that?” asked the Don.

Chacon stepped over to the edge of the abyss and pointed down the steep embankment.

“What you see down there has its own story to tell,” said the
vaquero
.

As the Don edged his horse closer to the brink, he was able to see the remains of two dead bodies sprawled on the side of the gully—both of them wearing crossed bandoliers—plus, two wide-brimmed
sombreros
lay near both bodies.

“Bandits,” said Don Roberto.

“There were many horses right here,” said Chacon, indicating the dried hoofprints by his feet. “I have surveyed this entire area and also discovered several other places where men were in hiding. Those two dead ones must have started down the side of the gully and were killed for their curiosity.”

“I think, maybe,” said Don Roberto, “that these dead men, and several others, ran into our ex–Texas Ranger friend, Charles Abner Sunday. Are there any tracks leading away from this spot?” asked the Don.

“There are,” said Jose Chacon. “But they do not lead forward. They go back in the direction from which they came.”

 

 

“There are many members of our tribe who, at one time or another, fought for the white man in his wars against the Comanche.”

It was Billy July speaking on the morning following the night of the Don's celebration. July was participating in the ritual of discussion before having his first meal of the day. He sat in a circle that contained, not only Elisabeth and Pennell, but Chief Bodie, himself, and several other members of the chief's council as well.

This dialogue they were having was a continuation of a debate left over from the night before. Black-Seminole tradition said that any discussion not completed the day before must be resolved prior to the beginning of a new day.

“So, you're implying that there are quite a few members of your tribe who may not want to fight alongside white people in another of our battles,” said Elisabeth.

“As we told you last night,” said Pennell, “we will not be fighting against other Indian tribes. We will be fighting an evil man who has taken a child away from his parents . . . a man who has demanded that we . . . the child's parents included . . . forget about the boy and leave this country to never come back again.”

“All we're asking you for is your help in getting the boy back to his parents,” said Elisabeth.

They were finally told by the two men that the entire tribe had voted on this subject earlier that morning, and they did not think it wise to fight white men's battles anymore.

“As evil as this man is,” said Chief Bodie, “and we ourselves have lived under his evilness, we must still turn down your request.”

“We know of this person,” said Billy July. “And we agree that he is indeed a very bad man. But we are very sorry that we cannot be of any help to you.”

 

 

That afternoon, after the celebration, everyone at the outfit's camp had been surprised by the arrival of Mitch Pennell and Elisabeth. They had made their trek back by following a Black-Seminole shortcut. Their arrival had been made easier by the accompanying sound of a good-size cannon being fired close by. It rattled the water gourds in the trees overhead as the twosome dismounted and tied off their horses. Rod and Sergeant Stone were there within seconds, each quickly finding a horse along the picket line. The two men raced away in the direction from which they figured the sound had come.

 

 

Less than a mile and a half away, the two riders found themselves in a clearing. They reined up. From this new vantage, they could see the
hacienda
. Mounted on its front walls, on either side of the double-gated entrance, were two very large brass cannons.

As Rod and the sergeant were beginning to gather their thoughts about what they were seeing, one of the cannons exploded with a ball of fire, sending its missile arcing through the air, then dropping onto one of the worker's adobe houses in the village below. A large blast occurred, sending pieces of adobe and wood chips flying in every direction.

“The Don is attacking his own workers,” said Sergeant Stone.

At that point, the other cannon was fired. This time the projectile landed on the tiled roof of the Catholic church. The explosion toppled one of the adobe bell towers, sending its remains crashing down onto the open area in front of the church facade with an echoing dissonance.

“We must go back and tell Charley about this,” said Rod. “That Don Sebastian is striking out against his own people.”

The two men reined around, then headed back toward the camp as quick as their horses could take them.

 

 

Charley and Fuerte, along with Pennell and Elisabeth, plus some of the others who were anxiously standing around the campsite in various degrees of dress, were watching the sky as billowing smoke began to rise above the tree line, blotting out the sun on the western horizon.

Sergeant Stone and Rod Lightfoot galloped into the camp, reining up hard, sliding their mounts to a stop in front of Charley and Fuerte.

As the two men dismounted, they were joined by Kelly and Rod, who were just as curious as everyone else about the deafening explosions rocking the ground around them.

“The Don has ordered his men to fire on his workers' village,” said Rod.

Another cannon fired and shook the ground under their feet. Moments later, the sound of the deadly missile exploding was heard, shaking the ground even harder. Another black puff of smoke began rising from the location of the village.

At that moment, Rodolfo and three other
vaqueros
appeared, riding into the camp. They reined up and dismounted near the small crowd.

Charley and the others moved to the new arrivals.

“Rodolfo,” yelled Charley, “what is going on over there?”

“Don Sebastian has turned against his own workers,” said Rodolfo. “Some of them are already dead or dying.”

He moved in closer to Charley who could see the man had been crying.

“My daughter, Señor Sunday,” he said, “my daughter is one of the injured. The Don gave us no warning . . . no warning at all.”

“Why do you think this is happening, Rodolfo?” asked Fuerte.

“Someone . . . either in your camp or my village, must have told the Don of your presence at the celebration last night. Firing on us with cannons is the Don's way of letting us know he is displeased with us.”

Charley shook his head.

“You mean he's done this before?”

Rodolfo answered, “Whenever he wishes to punish us.”

“I wonder who could have told him about our being there last night,” said Roscoe, who stood nearby.

“Couldn't a' been one of us,” said Feather. “At least not on my shift. Absolutely no one came near this camp, or left it, while I was on guard duty last night.”

“I can say the same for my shift,” said Roscoe. “No one in or out during my four hours.”

“Then it must be someone from my village,” said Rodolfo. “Though I do not know of anyone who would want to draw the Don's anger to the very place in which they live.”

“If you'd like, Rodolfo,” said Charley, “we can ride down there and at least stop them from firing those cannons for a while.”

“No, no, no, Señor Charley,” said Rodolfo. “The cannon fire will die down before you could get there . . . and besides, Don Sebastian is only doing that as a warning to us. What you had better prepare for is an attack on you. I must assume the Don is even angrier with you for breaking your word to him and remaining in Mexico.”

 

 

Another cannon roared as Henry Ellis started to descend the grand staircase. He held tight to the nearest banister as he made his way down the rest of the steps.

The boy burst into the dining room, stopping in his tracks when he saw Don Sebastian sitting calmly in his usual place at the long table, eating his early supper as if nothing were happening outside.

Another cannon roared, followed by a loud explosion. As its projectile hit its target, the glass chandeliers in the room jerked and rattled.

Henry Ellis moved closer to the Don.

“What is going on, Don Sebastian? What is all that noise?”

Without looking up, the Don replied, “It appears that your grandfather and his friends were right there at your party last evening, Chico,” he said. “I am just letting my workers know that for condoning their presence, I am very unhappy.”

“You're having your guards fire cannons at the village,” said the boy. “I can see what is going on from my bedroom window. The villagers did nothing to harm you.”

“But indeed they did, my Chico,” said Don Sebastian. “They allowed your grandfather and his friends to wait in their village when they knew beforehand that I would be bringing you there for the celebration.”

“That's not fair,” said Henry Ellis.

“What is not fair, Chico? That I am punishing my workers for something I should be punishing your grandfather for?”

He finally looked up, turning slightly to the boy.

“Your grandfather lied to me, Chico. And you, also, lied to me about your grandfather keeping his word. But fear not, my son, I will take care of your grandfather and his friends in due time. No one lies to me and gets away with it. Do you understand, Chico?”

Henry Ellis nodded.

“Now, go to your usual place at the table,” said Don Sebastian. “I'll have the servants bring you your supper.”

 

 

On the day they had returned from escorting Charley Sunday and his outfit back to the international border, Colonel Armendariz and the members of his gang had been told to make their camp in a far corner of the
hacienda
grounds—near the barracks for the reserve guards. Armendariz had made a handshake deal with Don Sebastian that, for a good sum of money, he and his followers would stay behind the
hacienda
's walls as a backup for his army of guards. To always be there—to assist the guards, if needed. That was in case the tide turned against the Don and extra soldiers were needed quickly. In return, Don Sebastian would provide, at no cost, food for the bandit leader and his followers, plus forage for their horses, just to have this extra security in case some part of his plan went awry.

As if they were camping alongside a road somewhere, Armendariz's band of outlaws had set up their tents and other portable structures in their usual way. They had been living in this camp for more than a few days, and some of them had become rather fed up with the whole idea.

Sitting around one of the fires in the camp, with several other gang members, Manolito watched as his wife prepared some beans wrapped in tortillas for the two of them, plus the others who were sitting nearby.

“Thank you, Mary Theresa,” said Manolito as his wife handed him a bean-filled tortilla.

The others also thanked her as she distributed the rest of the fare she had prepared for them.

She took the last rolled tortilla for herself, then settled back beside her husband to enjoy their evening meal.

“I am getting so tired,” said Mary Theresa, “of doing the same things over and over again, day after day. When do you think our colonel will decide to leave this place so we can again get back to our usual way of living?”

“I am afraid,” said Manolito, “that if our colonel has made up his mind to join forces with Don Sebastian, we could be here for a long, long time.”

“I just feel so useless,” said the woman.

Manolito laughed.

“You are a good cook, Mary Theresa,” he told her. “Can't you be satisfied with doing women's work for once in your life?”

A knife sliced through the air, finding a spot near Manolito's left boot to embed itself.

“
Ay caramba
,” shouted Manolito. “I was only teasing you when talking about women's work, Mary Theresa. I am your husband. Why would you want to kill me with a knife?”

“Consider it a warning, my dear husband,” said the woman. “Never mock me about doing women's work, when I am so much better with a blade and a pistol than you are.”

The other bandits chuckled.

 

 

Feather came running into the outfit's camp, leaving in his wake pieces of the kindling he'd been gathering. Finally, with just a few feet to go before he would intercept Charley, Fuerte, and Roscoe, he lost the entire load of sticks and small twigs. All the juggling he could muster couldn't save the tinder from scattering every which way, and then some.