Lawless Trail (18 page)

“It's about time you got back,” Hardaway said in a tense whisper. “I was already practicing what to say if you fell off dead from a stray bullet and the soldiers came sniffing around here.”

“It's winding down,” the Ranger said, dropping easily into his saddle and taking the reins. In the east the sun had begun to rise over the edge of the earth.

“Garand's men and the soldiers, like we figured?” Hardaway asked as the Ranger drew his Winchester back out of its boot.

“Yep,” said Sam. “Looks like Garand's posse is ready to pull stakes and hightail it—what's left of them anyway. The soldiers chewed them up pretty good.”

“You mean the soldiers have won?” Hardaway asked.

“If you can call it winning,” the Ranger said. “While they were all killing each other, the Traybos must've eased away in the night.” As the Ranger spoke, he took his bandanna from around his neck and tied it to the tip of his rifle barrel. Morning turned from purple darkness to dim silvery dawn.

“Good for the Traybos,” Hardaway said as they reined their horses and started around the boulder toward the trail. The gunfire had fallen silent by the time they rounded the turn and kept their horses at a walk into a low-looming cloud of gun smoke. The animals chuffed and blew and slung their heads at the biting odor of burnt sulfur and charcoal.

“Alto! Alto! Quién va allí?
” a weak broken voice called out from behind a rock along the side of the trail.

“Estamos aquí en paz,”
Sam called out.

“Oh, you are here in peace?” the sergeant said in English, in a bitter tone. “I will show you peace!” He stepped in front of Sam and Hardaway holding a pistol cocked at arm's length. Blood ran down his forehead from a bullet graze. A cloth had been drawn and tied around a wound in his upper arm.

The Ranger let his rifle barrel level down at him.

“
Con calma
, Sergeant,” he said coolly, recognizing the insignia on the man's uniform. “I'm Arizona Territory Ranger Sam Burrack. We heard the fight. We came to help you and your men.”

“
My men?
Ha! My men are dead, as is my
capitán
. I have two men left, and they are bleeding to death in the dirt.” He wagged the gun toward the side of the trail. “We were chasing desperadoes my
capitán
had captured. They had escaped from us.”

“You had captured them?” Sam asked.

“
Sí
, my
capitán
captured them while I was scouting the trail. We met here at the ruins. Do you know of these desperadoes?” he asked.

“Yes,” the Ranger said. “I'm tracking them myself. They robbed a bank and cut out for the border. They hide out here in Mexico.”

“Ha,” said the sergeant. “Everybody hides out here in
Méjico
. My poor country is cursed.”

“Were they carrying sacks of money?” the Ranger asked, watching his eyes closely to check his reply.

“Sacks of money? No,” said the wounded sergeant. “I saw no sacks of money.” He paused for a second, then said, “I only met the
capitán
and the soldiers back there at the ruins. They did not mention any money. I know they would have if there was any.” He gave the Ranger a sincere and leveled gaze. “Always I trust my men and my
capitán
,” he added. He hung his head and shook it in grief. “And now they are all dead,” he ended in a whisper.

“Except for two,” Sam said. “So let's not waste time, Sergeant. Let's get the three of you patched up and over to Espenoza to the doctor there.”

“
Sí
, step down, Ranger. You are not my enemy,” he said, uncocking his gun. He swayed in place and wiped his gun hand, gun and all, across his forehead. The air still smelled heavily of burnt powder beneath a waft of brown-gray smoke.

“Espenoza? It's near thirty miles to Espenoza!” said Hardaway.

Seeing the Ranger step down from his saddle, Hardaway followed suit. He followed alongside him as Sam stepped back to his saddlebags, opened them and reached inside.

“What about catching the Traybos?” Hardaway asked, looking concerned.

“They'll keep,” said Sam. “We need to get the sergeant and his men some help.” He pulled a roll of gauze and cotton ties from inside his saddlebags. “See if you can round up what horses are still alive.”

“What about the deal between you and me?” Hardaway asked. “What about my reward money waiting in Cottonwood?”

“We'll get to it,” said the Ranger. “Right now we're going to take these soldiers to Espenoza. I'm going to let both Garand and the Traybos cool down some—they're all too hot to handle right now.”

“Too hot to handle?” Hardaway just stared at Sam for a moment. Then he hurried alongside him toward the sergeant, who had sunk to the ground and sat clutching his wounded arm.

It was noon when the Ranger and Hardaway escorted the wounded sergeant and his two soldiers onto the dusty empty street running through the heart of Espenoza. The town lay centered on an ancient Spanish mission standing above the narrow shale banks of Río Blanco, where a life-sized Christ hewn from stone stood suffering on an ironwood cross affixed to the church's steeple.

The Ranger, Hardaway and Sergeant Malero rode abreast, the sergeant sitting slumped in his saddle, head bowed. Hardaway and the Ranger each led a horse that carried the bodies of the other two soldiers, the mortally wounded men having died less than halfway along the rocky trail.

As they rode toward the large open front doors of the whitewashed adobe church, an old stoop-shouldered priest and two tight-faced, middle-aged nuns hurried forward to meet them. Stepping down from their saddles, helping Sergeant Malero off the horse and steadying him between them, the Ranger and Hardaway followed the gesturing sweep of the old padre's arm toward an infirmary beside the church.

“Bienvenida,”
he said, welcoming them, looking the sergeant up and down as the two led him toward the open door of the infirmary. “Is this yet another of the victims from the gun battle at the Sant Felipe
ruins?” he asked. Looking back at the bodies as he spoke, he crossed himself quickly as the nuns summoned the assistance of a worker from the churchyard.

“Yes, it is,” the Ranger said. “There's been others?” He looked around instinctively.

“They're still here?” Hardaway asked.

“Ah yes, and like yourselves, they too are
americanos
—lawmen from the railroads. . . .” His words trailed as he looked the Ranger and Hardaway up and down curiously.

Hardaway and the Ranger looked at each other as they helped the sergeant through the infirmary door and sat him on the edge of a thin straw-filled mattress lying atop a gurney in the middle of the clay-tiled floor.

“I'm Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack, Padre,” the Ranger said, taking off his sombrero. “This is Fatch Hardaway.” He nodded toward Hardaway, who also took off his dusty hat and smoothed back his hair behind his right ear.

“Hola,”
said Hardaway.

“Where might we find these other
víctimas americanas
?” the Ranger asked.

The old priest's eyes took on a wary look. He raised an arthritic finger in questioning.

“You do not wish to kill them here?” he asked. “This is a holy place.”

“We don't want to kill them at all, Padre,” Sam said. “We only want to talk to them if we can.”

“Ah, then they are
sus amigos
?” he asked with a growing look of relief.

“No, they're not our friends, Padre,” said the Ranger. “But they are not our
enemigos
either. We are all riding this lawless trail—all seeking the same men.” He gave Sergeant Malero a questioning look.

“I should kill them,” said Malero. “Especially the man who spit in my horse's face, if he is still alive.” He let out a tight breath. “But I won't,” he added. “They didn't know who the captain was.” He shrugged his good shoulder. “They only defended themselves against our rifles, as all men will do.”

“That's a good way of looking at it,” the Ranger said. “You and them were both after the same men. Things just got out of hand.”

The priest nodded and looked closer at Sergeant Malero, noting his soiled and blood-splattered uniform.

“También busca usted a los hombres sin ley, en el rastro sin ley?”
he asked, posing his question to Malero in Spanish. He then stepped in and removed the sergeant's hand from gripping his wounded arm.

“Yes, Padre,” he replied in English. “I too seek lawless men on this lawless trail.” He added, “We are all of us seeking these same lawless men.”

The old stoop-shouldered priest looked up from examining the blood-crusted gunshot wound.

“If you are all seeking the same lawless men, why is it you kill each other in your pursuit?” he asked coolly.

“I do not know, Padre,” said the sergeant, looking at the Ranger as he replied. “For that answer you must ask this man.”

The Ranger returned the sergeant's gaze as he answered the old priest's question.

“It's because we're all seeking these men for our own reasons,” he said.

“Ah, and each of you thinks your reason is the most important,” the old priest surmised. He turned his eyes back to Sergeant Malero to hear his personal reason.

“I am a soldier, Padre,” Malero said. “I am only following my orders.”

“Ah, I see,” the priest murmured, his knotty fingertips red now from the soldier's blood. He looked at Hardaway as if to hear his reason.

Hardaway shrugged and pointed at the Ranger.

“I'm with him, Padre,” he said, as if shedding himself of any responsibility on the matter.

The priest looked again at the Ranger.

“I'm here to enforce the law, Padre,” he said. “These men broke the law. I'm here to bring them to justice.”

“They break the law in America, and you bring them to justice in
Méjico.
” He paused, as if considering it.

“I have authority, given by your government in the Matamoros Agreement—says I'm granted right to pursue felons across the border when they are fleeing a crime.”

The old priest gave him a doubtful look.

“Because you are authorized to kill men on both sides of the border does not make you justified in God's eyes,” he said, approaching the issue from a whole other angle.

“I never said it does, Padre,” the Ranger replied. “I'm hoping he justifies me himself when that time comes. He's the one saw it when it happened.”

“Oh.” The old priest straightened a little. “Then I will say no more on this,” he said with a dismissive brush of his bloody hand. “The three wounded hombres are in the building behind the church. There are beds there where you can rest, since you are not
enemigos
and you can keep from killing each other.”

“
Gracias
, Padre,” the Ranger said. He looked at Sergeant Malero and said, “We're going on after the Traybos soon as we've rested ourselves and our horses. You want to ride with us, you're welcome.”

“No, I will remain here until I am well enough to report to my regiment.” He carefully touched the blood-crusted bullet graze atop his head. “It is my new superior's decision what happens next.”

“I understand,” the Ranger said, raising his sombrero, setting it back atop his head.

When the two stepped outside the infirmary door and turned the corner toward the adobe building behind it, Hardaway looked back over his shoulder and shook his head.

“Did he strike you as being hurt that bad?” he said.

“I don't know. I'm not a doctor,” the Ranger said, walking on.

“His bark fell off awfully quick if you ask me,” he said. “I'd think he'd be all up for getting revenge on the men who killed his soldiers.”

“Some folks don't hold grudges like others,” the Ranger said without looking around at him.

“Yeah, I suppose that's it,” said Hardaway, but he stared at the Ranger with a curious look until they reached the open door of the rear building and walked inside.

Seeing the Ranger, Dallas Garand stood up with his rifle in both hands. His hat had been split a third of the way up its crown to accommodate his thickly bandaged head. His left eye had turned purple and swollen shut. His face was otherwise pale and haggard; his right eye was bloodshot and looked a little unfocused.

“Easy, men,” he said sidelong to Folliard, DeSpain and Prew, who also stood holding their rifles, Prew leaning on his to take pressure off his bandaged foot. “Ranger,” he said, “if you saw what happened along the trail and came here to gloat, I've got lots of good men lying dead back there.”

“I wouldn't gloat about that, Garand,” Sam said.

“What
are
you doing here?” DeSpain cut in. He eased down under a cold stare from Garand.

“I'll ask you that same question,” Garand said. “I hope you didn't come here bringing wounded soldiers. If you did, they can still be killed, church house or no.”

“We brought two of them here,” Sam said. “They both died on the way.” He nodded toward the window.

Garand let his hands relax around his rifle stock.

“Well . . . I suppose it's over anyway with the soldiers,” he said. “We lost some good men, but by Godfrey, we showed that bunch.”

“Showed them what?” Hardaway asked.

Garand gave him a dirty look; then he turned his swollen and bloodshot eyes back to the Ranger.

“It never would have happened if they had come upon us showing some respect.”

“Really?” The Ranger gave him a skeptical look.

“You know how they get down here, these beaners,” Garand said. “We would have had the Traybos' tails bobbed and braided by this morning if it hadn't been for soldiers poking in. One of them ran right out into the trail—couldn't keep from running him over. Then that damn sergeant and his huffy attitude . . .”

“Heh-heh-heh,”
DeSpain cut in, chuckling under his breath. “I spit a plug right twixt his damn horse's eyes.”

“So I heard,” the Ranger said
.
He asked Garand, “What's your plan now?”

“My plan is to go straight on, kill the sons a' bitches and get the money back,” Garand replied. “We were getting ready to leave when you showed up, you and Fatcharack here.”

Fatch Hardaway glared at him but held himself in check.

“What about you two?” Garand asked. “Don't think you're going to get ahead of us. This is still my show and I'm running it.”

“No problem with me, Garand,” the Ranger said. “You're in the lead. We won't try to pass you up.”

“That's just fine. See that you don't,” Garand said. He touched his battered hat brim, turned with his battered, bandaged men and left, Earl Prew thumping along on his rifle barrel behind the others.

“That son of a bitch,” Hardaway said when the four walked out of sight toward a small livery barn. “He still thinks he's cock of the walk.” He leaned his rifle against the wall, sat down on a cot and leaned back and adjusted his gun belt. “What now?” he asked.

Sam walked a few feet to another empty cot and sat down. He took off his sombrero and leaned his rifle against the wall.

“Get yourself some rest,” the Ranger said. “I'll wait until they leave and go grain and water our horses.”

“
Gracias
, you do that, Ranger,” Hardaway said sleepily, pulling his hat brim down over his eyes.

•   •   •

In the afternoon when the Ranger finished filing a thin, small X in both front shoes of Hardaway's buckskin, he set the horse's hoof down and patted its chest. Laying the flat bastard-cut file aside, he straightened and rolled down his shirtsleeves and buttoned them. He saddled Hardaway's horse alongside his own and led both animals to a hitch rail and spun their reins around it.

Having watched the Ranger mark the buckskin's shoes, an old Mexican liveryman scratched his bald head and stared curiously. He watched until Sam walked out of sight toward the adobe building where Hardaway lay sleeping out of the day's heat. At the open doorway, the Ranger leaned and watched the last of a long stream of trail dust rise and drift away on a hot breeze.

After another moment he turned and walked inside to Hardaway's cot. He planted a boot on the side of the cot and shook it until Hardaway sat up with his eyes blinking, his hat falling onto his lap.

“Jesus, Ranger, what?” Hardaway said, trying to get his mind working clearly.

“It's time to go,” Sam said.

“Go? Go where?” Hardaway looked around, shoving his hair back out of his face. He saw the Ranger pick up a canteen from a table and hook its strap over his shoulder and pick up a cloth bag.

“Back on the trail,” the Ranger said.

Hardaway yawned and wiped his face with his palms and tried to make sense of things.

“Damn, it'll soon be night out. I haven't had a bite to eat,” he complained, sitting on the edge of the cot, shoving his hat back down on his head.

“I brought you a canteen of hot coffee and a bag of food the nuns fixed for you.” He shook the canvas bag a little. “Get up. We're leaving before dark. You can eat on the trail.”

“Well, hell yes,” said Hardaway in a testy voice. “There's nothing I like better than eating in the saddle, washing dust and bugs down my gullet with Mexican sage coffee.”

“Then you are in for a treat,” the Ranger said with the thin trace of a grin.

“Can I ask why you're in such a hurry all of a sudden?” Hardaway said, standing, taking the offered cloth bag and the hot canteen.

“We've got a long ride to where we're headed,” the Ranger said, picking up his rifle from against the wall and checking it.