Deadfall (5 page)

“Not quite,” said Charley. “I can't offer you another cattle drive, but we got something that offers a little more excitement this time around.”

Holliday cocked his head. He stared at Charley with his one good eye.

“And just what might that be?”

“Have you ever been to Mexico, Plunker Holliday?” asked Charley.

Holliday took a moment to study Charley's eyes, then he looked over to the boy. When he realized the two were dead serious about taking him to Mexico he answered:

“Nope, I've somehow managed to keep myself on this side of the border all these years. But now I get the feelin' I'll be wearin' itchy wool
ponchos
and ten-gallon
sombreros
for a spell. Who're ya goin' after?” he asked.

“Henry Ellis's parents were abducted a few days ago,” said Charley. “We don't have much time, I'm afraid.”

“I might be a little rusty,” said Holliday. “I don't shoot people that much anymore. I just teach people ta shoot people nowadays. Lemme get my possibles together. Then I'll meet you two up at the sandwich shop on Main Street. Best we get somethin' under our belt buckles before we head down inta Mexico, don't ya think?”

Charley shook his head.

“No,” said Charley. “There'll be more than three of us when we go. No, you go on and eat. Me and Henry Ellis have another fella we need to talk to within riding distance from here. Suppose you just take your time packing up and eating. Just be at my ranch in Juanita tomorrow, before noon.”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Jagged strands of blazing white lightning zigzagged across the darkened sky, while thunder rolled repeatedly. Heavy rain came down in sheets, pounding the rigid buildings and barbed-wire-covered walls that made up the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville.

Inside one of the squalid cellblocks, a uniformed prisoner's ruddy fist slammed into the defiant face of Mitchell Pennell who, like the others surrounding him, was dressed in lackluster prison garb.

“You're a pig, Mitch Pennell,” said the convict who was administering the beating. “A cheatin', rotten, lyin', stupid, low-life pig!”

Several other long-timers were holding Pennell securely from behind, making it impossible for the man to defend himself.

“I agree with every word you just said about me, except stupid,” said Pennell. “The
sucker
in a con game is the stupid one, Belford, not the instigator. That means . . . you must be the stupid one,” he added.

Another hamlike fist wiped the grin off Pennell's face and he slumped, still in the other two jailbirds' grasp.

“Now you men hold him good,” said the convict called Belford. “I wanna make sure he never cheats another man in this crummy joint . . . ever again.”

As Belford drew back his fist to strike Pennell one more time, a voice called out:

“Hey! What's going on over there?”

It was a guard's voice.

The convicts who'd been observing the one-sided exchange broke up the gathering and went their separate ways. The two men holding Pennell let go of him and he stumbled over to a wall where he leaned, huffing.

Belford was trying his best to remove the blood spatter from his knuckles when he heard the click of a switchblade knife.

The guard called out again:

“Number three four six eight . . . Mitchell Pennell. The warden wants to see you in his office . . . On the double!”

Mitch Pennell's lopsided smile, showing bloodied teeth, was one of triumph—at least for the moment. He started forward—then he stopped as he looked Belford in the eyes. The bully's face was one of awkward surprise. Pennell reached out and pulled his switchblade knife from Belford's chest, where his swift throw had buried the blade to its hilt.

Belford crumbled to the ground with his heart pumping its contents into a widening pool of blood on the sandstone floor. Belford's eyes were still locked on to Pennell's. Pennell bent down and wiped the blade clean on the wounded prisoner's own sleeve, then he closed the blade and returned the knife to his pocket.

For a moment the two men stared at one another, then Pennell turned away. He stared at the other two prisoners.

He spat a bloody glob onto the floor beside them. It splatted at their feet.

With a prison guard on either side of him, Mitch Pennell stood facing Warden F. Q. Dobbs, who was sitting stuffily behind his oversized desk.

“That's what I said, Pennell . . . a temporary reprieve,” Dobbs told him.

He held up an official looking document for Pennell to peruse.

“It came all the way from Austin by special messenger,” said Dobbs. “Signed by the governor of Texas, personally.”

He handed the document to Pennell, then he shook his head.

“Do you want to know something else, Pennell?” he went on. “In all my years of experience with the Texas state prison system, this is the first one of these things I've ever handed out to a prisoner who's doing ninety-nine years and a day.”

“Do you wanna know somethin', too, Warden?” said Pennell. “In all my years of experience with the Texas state prison system, this is the first and only time I ever got one of these things . . . let alone seen one.”

Warden Dobbs leaned forward, getting to his feet.

He ordered the two guards: “Get him out of here. There's a government wagon out front waiting to take him to the train station.”

The warden held another piece of paper in his hand; he passed it to Pennell.

“Here's your train ticket. It was delivered with your temporary reprieve . . . It's to a little town out west called Juanita. I've been advised that someone you know will be meeting you there.”

A two-horse U.S. Army wagon rolled into Charley Sunday's ranch yard late that night, with two glowing oil lamps hanging from nails driven into both front corners of the wagon's bed. Behind the reins sat the driver. The man sitting beside him wore a U.S. Army field uniform with master sergeant's stripes sewn to the sleeves. As he began to climb down from his perch, his silhouette showed him to be imposing in both physical size and color—muscular and black.

The sergeant moved around to the wagon's tailgate where he found, placed one beside the other, three olive-drab, padlocked, metal cases with his name and rank neatly stenciled on each.

Charley, Henry Ellis, and Roscoe stepped out onto the back porch, turning on the electric porch light as they passed the switch. All three were in their nightshirts and slippers.

“Is that you, Captain Sunday?” said Sergeant Stone from across the yard.

Charley nodded as he came down the steps, with Roscoe and Henry Ellis following close behind.

“It is,” Charley called out. “And that must be you, Sergeant Stone?”

“Master Sergeant Tobias P. Stone reporting for duty, Captain,” said the large black man, saluting. He was now standing at his full height.

“I know Fort Clark is less than a few miles away from here, Captain,” said the sergeant. “But after you and your grandson left me today, I was given a lot of paperwork to fill out . . . plus gettin' my toolboxes off the post proved to be more difficult than I had expected. I finally found a friend with a wagon, and we searched around for a delivery gate that was unattended, plus we waited for night. We used that gate, Captain Sunday. But we still took a roundabout way to get here, just in case someone might have spotted us. Is it really Armendariz?” he added.

“Like I told you this afternoon, Sergeant, I don't know of anyone else who would be crazy enough to abduct two American citizens in broad daylight, then scurry them off into Mexico without a ransom demand.”

“I'll be damned,” said Stone. “And here I thought you Rangers had put the last nail in Armendariz's coffin, years ago.”

“Well, that ain't true,” said Charley.

About then the wagon's driver whipped up the team, turning the wagon.

“I gotta be gettin' back, Sarge,” said the man.

Sergeant Stone nodded, and the wagon moved out of the ranch yard, disappearing down the path and into the night.

Roscoe took a step closer.

“I'm Roscoe Baskin, Sergeant,” he said, “Charley's pardner. I reckon you got to know Henry Ellis this afternoon. But I don't think the two of us have met before.”

“Sergeant Stone an' me met one another during the War between the North and South, Roscoe,” said Charley. “I reckon I never got around to telling you that story. Sergeant Stone was wearing blue like he is now, fighting for the Yanks. And I was wearing gray, leading a patrol for the Confederacy. One night I came across some of my men using Sergeant Stone for bayonet practice. I put a stop to it.”

“Nearly killed one of 'em, he did, savin' my life,” said the sergeant. “I owe Captain Sunday a lot for what he done for me that night. That's why I'm here. I'm on a thirty-day administrative leave stamped by the Department of War.”

He looked over to the olive-drab boxes, now on the ground where the wagon once stood.

“And I got my tools, Charley. That's all that matters.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Kent Pritchard and his wife, Betty Jean—the parents of Henry Ellis—sat watching as a middle-aged Mexican man dressed in a haphazard collection of mismatched uniform pieces, plus a jumble of glittering gold medals pinned to his chest, had breakfast prepared for, and served, to his two
guests
by several camp followers.

A long, wooden table had been set up on the front porch of the abandoned adobe building that was temporarily serving as the colonel's headquarters. There were rooms inside where he and his officers slept, plus similar accommodations on the second floor where he kept his prisoners.

The Pritchards appeared to be somewhat uneasy in the colonel's presence. Since their abduction several days earlier, neither of them had been allowed any food at all—until this morning. They had been given only water to drink while they were brought overland in the same coach in which they'd been captured. It had taken them some time to get there. Upon arrival they'd been locked in a small second-story room inside the adobe building, which looked as if it had been a bedroom at one time. Now, the following morning, both of them were wondering why they were suddenly being offered this special treatment.

“You will find that while you are the personal guests of Colonel Alfonso Natividad Armendariz, that starting now, you will always eat well and be treated like royalty.”

“And just what exactly is that supposed to mean?” asked Kent.

“Exactly what it sounds like, señor,” said Armendariz. “I have just received orders that you should be treated as guests, and not prisoners, from now on.”

“Why did your men let my boy go when they took us?” asked Betty Jean.

“My men did not let your boy go,” said Armendariz. “He escaped. A small mistake was made by one of my men that allowed your son to get away. They are searching for him now.”

“You must be speaking of Señor Fuerte when you talk of a man who mistakenly allowed my son to get away,” said Kent.

“No, no, señor,” said Armendariz. “Señor Fuerte is who he presented himself to be . . . a security official hired by Don Roberto Acosta. Señor Fuerte most certainly does not work for me.”

Betty Jean interrupted.

“Do you have any milk, Colonel?” she asked.

“I do,” said Armendariz, reaching for a goatskin bota that hung from a branch nearby. “I have milk and it is cold, señora. My women brought it from the creek just for you.”

Betty Jean took the leather pouch and poured some milk into one of the glasses that sat on the table in front of her. When she was done pouring, she picked up the glass and drank. The sour taste turned her stomach.

“Oh, my Lord,” she said, almost gagging, “what is this?”

“It is milk from the goat, señora,” said the colonel. “I am sorry if you prefer milk from the cow . . . but we have no cows.”

“No, thank you,” said Betty Jean, waving the bota away. “I am finished with my breakfast.”

Armendariz waved his hand and the two peon women moved in quickly, taking her utensils before scurrying away.

Kent spoke: “We are not your ‘personal' guests, Colonel Armendariz . . . nor are we royalty,” he began. “We are your prisoners . . . there's no doubt about that. We are also United States citizens, who have been forcibly abducted and taken against our will across an international border. That's a punishable crime in my country, mister. And . . . let me tell you something more, Colonel, the state of Texas, and my government in Washington, D.C., still do not pay ransom.”

“Is that what you are thinking, señor?” said Armendariz. “Do you still think that my employer has ordered your abduction to collect a ransom?”

“Not one red cent, Colonel,” said Kent, “that's what you and your employer will get. Not one red cent.”

 

 

Both Pennell and Holliday had joined up with the rest of Charley's little outfit, which, besides Charley, Henry Ellis, Roscoe, and Feather, now included those two, plus Sergeant Stone, Rod, and Kelly as well.

The outfit, now astride their horses, with two newly acquired mules pulling Roscoe's makeshift chuckwagon—a vehicle that carried food for them and their horses, plus supplies and Sergeant Stone's mysterious toolboxes—were headed for the Juanita train station. That was because Charley had decided they'd travel by rail—as they had done a year earlier to get to Denver. As before, this was being done to save time. Once they were in Brownsville, Charley hoped they might be able to pick up the trail of the boy's parents and their abductors. The faster they got there, he felt, any clues, or witnesses to the abduction who were still there, would be much easier to find.

The chuckwagon had once been Charley's two-seat buckboard, but due to the cost of purchasing a brand-new chuckwagon for last year's cattle drive, Charley had decided that by adding a used undercarriage with sturdier wheels and all, plus a cook's box, fly, and canvas top, the old buckboard would serve them just as well as a store-bought chuckwagon—and it had.

 

 

Don Roberto Acosta y Castro and his foreman, Luis Hernandez, leading thirty-two members of the Don's most trusted militia men plus eighteen of his best
vaqueros
, had stopped on the Mexican side of the Brownsville/Matamoros border bridge, and were in deep conversation with Roca Fuerte.

“You said in your message that you have no idea of which direction they took after crossing into Mexico?” said Don Roberto.

“Only that when I was finally able to get to this side of the bridge, their trail appeared to go north . . . along the river. Now those tracks have been trampled many times over by the regular border traffic.”

“Immediately, I am thinking that a trail north is a tactic to send us off in the wrong direction,” said the Don.

“I am sorry, Don Roberto,” said Fuerte. “I wish that I could have gotten here sooner after the incident, but I thought searching for the boy should take precedence.”

“You made the proper choice, Roca,” said Don Roberto, “and I thank you sincerely. I will lead my
vaqueros
and follow the trail leading north . . .”

He turned in his saddle.

“Luis,” he called out, “choose eight
vaqueros
who are experts with a sidearm, and bring them with us. We are following the trail leading north. The rest of you men will head west. Before you go, I will split you up into separate groups. Each unit will spread out along the way and report back to me every other day at sundown.”

“I would very much like to go with you,” said Fuerte. “I still feel as if the abduction and the boy's escape were my fault—”

“No, Roca. I need for you to stay in Brownsville. Find out if the authorities know anything about what happened yesterday . . . or if the boy might have gone to them after he ran off.”

“
Sí
, Don Roberto,” said Fuerte, “as you wish.”

“And report to me, by messenger if need be, of what you find out.”

“I will do the best I can, Don Roberto,” said Fuerte. “And I apologize for letting yesterday's incident happen in the first place.”

“Roca,” said the Don, “my friend Roca. I told you that what took place yesterday could have happened to any number of men. It was an ambush . . . You were attacked by superior forces unexpectedly. Please do not keep blaming yourself, Roca. It was in no way your doing.”

“Then I will make it up to you, Don Roberto,” said Fuerte. “I will find the boy. And when I do, I will take him to your
hacienda
. Then I will begin to search for his parents, as you are.”

“What you do, Roca, is up to you. Just stop blaming yourself.”

Fuerte nodded his head.

Don Roberto smiled. He turned to his foreman.

“Whenever you're ready, Luis. Split up the men, then I will give the order to move out.

 

 

It took almost a full day and part of the night to get from Juanita to Brownsville by rail—most of the time—unless something unexpected came up along the way.
Unexpected
usually meant things like a hot box, an unscheduled oncoming train, a derailing, or a dysfunctional brake or two—things like that. But on the day Charley's outfit was making their journey to Brownsville,
unexpected
meant the train was attacked by a gang of border-crossing Mexican marauders.

At first Charley figured he wouldn't even need to draw his pistol. But when a bullet smashed its way through the glass directly above his grandson's head, he pushed Henry Ellis to the floor beside his feet while at the same time drawing his old Walker Colt from his boot.

Most of the other passengers—besides those members of the outfit traveling along with Charley—were greenhorn army infantrymen who would surely begin firing back with their own carbines, Charley figured. But when another stray outlaw bullet shattered the pane of window glass two seats in front of Charley, showering several soldiers with jagged shards of glass, more than a few of the new recruits began acting foolish. Some dropped their rifles and began to shout, while others started running up and down the aisles like headless chickens. All the while the bandits, who rode their galloping horses parallel to the train, kept firing.

Even though it appeared the attackers were only a few yards from the passenger car, many Mexican bullets went wide of their intended targets.

By then, Roscoe, Feather, Holliday, Rod, Kelly, Sergeant Stone, and Mitch Pennell were firing back at the bandits through the train car's shattered windows.

One of the attacking Mexicans decided to show off for his companions; he rode up very close to the train's clattering wheels. From there he transferred from saddle to coach in one swift and easy motion, quickly climbing the several steps to the back platform before kicking in the rear door of the passenger car and entering with his two pistols blazing.

Holy Moses,
thought Charley as he shoved Henry Ellis's curious head back down below the seat again. Then he watched as the remaining soldiers dove for cover beneath their own wooden seats, pawing for safety, paralyzed by fear.

I reckon I'm going to have to get myself involved in this silly ruckus anyhow
, thought Charley.

With the onboard Mexican's bullets ricocheting all around every which way, Charley stood up, raised his pistol, and sighted carefully. He triggered one single shot. The daring bandit's eyes bulged wide as the flat of his belly intercepted the old Colt's swirling ball of lead, setting him back a step. His face showed absolute bewilderment. In his haste, the bandit had not seen the older cowboy in the gray coat, with the oversize Stetson, among the many American soldiers. Now the wounded bandit could only stand silent trying to hold in his leaking intestines. His two weapons dangled useless at the ends of his crossed arms.

The members of Charley's outfit kept on firing out the windows while the soldiers took all the time they needed to rise up from behind their seats, aim their carbines in unison, and shoot the intruding bandit twenty-three more times. The soldiers may have been frightened their first time under fire, but when push came to shove, they were all crackerjack shooters. Every single bullet they fired hit its mark. The recruits' primary volley cut the lone invader in half, his upper torso falling one way while the pelvic region and legs toppled the other. A second volley followed shortly, blasting the man's head into a thousand pieces before what remained of it hit the floor like a half-eaten apple core.

 

 

It was close to midnight when the train pulled into the Brownsville station. Several depot workers, plus a single newspaper reporter, were there to welcome Charley and his outfit. That was so reports of the incident would greet the citizens of Brownsville over their morning coffee. Charley refused to talk to the reporter. He let Kelly speak for all of them while he and the rest of the outfit began to unload the chuckwagon and the livestock.

An hour later Charley and the others had the horses, mules, and the chuckwagon off the train and were saddled and ready for cross-country travel.

“That reporter must have returned to his office by now to write his story about the bandit raid,” said Charley.

“That'd be a good bet,” said Kelly.

“Did you tell him why we were here?” asked Charley.

“Only that we're a for-hire cattle outfit from up Amarillo way, come to Brownsville to pick up a herd to drive north,” she said.

“Good girl,” he told her. “Before we mount up,” he said to the rest of them, “I'll bet there's a few of you who could use something to eat.”

He turned to his grandson.

“Henry Ellis . . . why don't you give Roscoe a hand unpacking some of our vittles. Nothing that needs any cooking, mind you. Ham sandwiches, jerky, and cold beans ought to do it. A campfire would just draw attention to us anyway. After that, we can all catch up on a little shut-eye before we head out. But I don't want us anywhere near this depot when the sun comes up. The local folks might not like waking up to a well-intentioned, well-armed posse camped so close to their city.”

“You will be safe wherever you are,” came a heavily accented reply from the shadows . . . as long as I am with you.”

Guns were quickly drawn as everyone turned to the sound of the voice.

“Step out here into some light,” said Charley, cocking his Walker Colt. “Show yourself.”

Roca Fuerte followed Charley's order and moved out of the shadows and into a shaft of moonlight.

“It's Señor Fuerte,” said Henry Ellis. “Don't shoot. I know him.”