Читать книгу The Savage Breed - Randy Denmon - Страница 10

The dusty, thorny prairie was shaded a stunning gold the next morning when Travis and his partner recommenced their journey north. The two had enjoyed a short but uneventful night, encamped in a heavy thicket on the banks of the Nueces. The sky had cleared, and the new day held the promise of cherished warmth. As Travis followed Chase down the little-used but well-defined trail, the morning sun showed the scenery getting greener, and acacias, oaks, and buffalo grass began to supplant the sage and cacti.

Not an hour into the ride, Chase tightened his reins, bringing his mare to a slow stop.

“What’s up?” Travis inquired, pulling up next to Chase, who nodded his head toward a small cloud of dust rising from the earth a mile up the trail. Travis strained his eyes at the wide panorama, currently stretching from flat plain to rolling hills. A few winks of silver in the brown blur told him the riders, whoever they were, were well armed. “Mexicans?”

“I doubt it. They haven’t crossed the Los Olmos River yet. And I’ve never seen a Comanche or Apache stir up that much dust.”

While Chase spoke, Travis thought he heard a few gunshots in the distance; any noise carried for miles in this country. He looked at Chase, studying his reaction. The two had a bond carved from many battles. They were friends, but Travis trusted Chase like no other, and knew his moods and thoughts like the back of his own hand. Chase’s look of worry infused Travis with cold concern.

“Whoever it is, they’re in one hell of a hurry south. Let’s ride up on one of these hills and investigate.” Chase slapped his horse on the neck with his hat, and the mare reared sideways before racing headlong off into a thicket.

Only a minute later, Travis topped a small hill and made a running dismount. He removed his field glasses from his saddle and rested his eyes and elbows on the back of his horse.

“Hell, that’s Texas Rangers chasing somebody,” Chase suggested, also studying the posse in a similar position.

“Whoever they’re chasing is ducking into the river,” Travis added. Through his binoculars, the men in question were only faint images. But Rangers were easy to spot, with their red shirts, white hats, and familiar repeating pistols.

“Let’s go give ’em a hand.” Chase put his glasses back in a saddlebag and quickly remounted.

Ten minutes later, Travis led Chase, angling through the brush to the dusty north bank of the Nueces River. The gunfire had subsided. Ahead, down the riverbank a hundred or so yards, he saw the lawmen, circling on horseback, trying to pick up a track. He cupped his mouth with a hand and yelled, “Lieutenant Travis Ross! We’re coming in. Don’t shoot.”

In the small opening, the three Rangers came into view, and Travis knew two of them: Chester Woods and Tony Flores, seasoned veterans. Flores had mestizo blood, all 120 pounds of him: tiny, dark, and humble, but with a heart as big as a wagon wheel and fortitude envied by the entire Ranger contingent. Both men had been under Chase’s or Travis’s command during the first Ranger engagements with the Comanches around the Brazos.

“They hit the river back a piece and then moved east,” Chase said. “Who were they?”

“Bandits,” Chester answered. “Robbed a store in Cotulla. Killed an old man for two horses and six dollars.”

Travis turned in his saddle, looking out at the lonely land and giving the backdrop a weary inspection. It was still mid-morning, the day barely holding its cool nip. He rode over and shook Chester’s hand, then Tony’s. “Good to see you, Sergeant Flores. What you boys doing way down here?”

“Looking for you two. There’s been a change of plans. Got orders from Major Bob Williamson himself,” Chester said, boasting. “I quote: Get their sorry asses over to Goliad with all haste. Report to Colonel Fannin there. And no dabbling in watering holes and gambling houses—there’s a fight coming.”

Travis and Chase laughed.

“I can see Bob’s never been to south Texas,” Travis added. “But if we win this war, I may open up a gambling and sinning establishment. You sure need one after crossing this depressing bush.” Travis turned to the third Ranger, a young, freckle-faced, whiskerless man—almost a boy—with clean clothes and a new pistol. “Who’s the pup?”

“This here is Private James Fitzmorris—just signed on,” Chester replied.

Travis followed Chase over to the young man, and the two formally introduced themselves.

“James,” Travis said, “I’m glad you gave your body to the cause. We need it. But what they didn’t tell you is that when you sign on with this bunch, you’re giving your soul to the Devil.”

Chase and Tony snickered, and Travis turned to see both men’s smiles stretching to their ears.

“Well, if the good Major Williamson says we better get to Goliad, we better get going. We’ll follow the river east. Might find these bandits and administer some justice,” Travis continued, gently kicking his heels against his pony.

Mid-afternoon found Travis and the Rangers lying on their stomachs, inspecting a deep ravine cradling the Nueces River. The Texas sun was at their backs, illuminating the flat, white rocks, the maroon dirt, the yellow foliage, and the clear, indigo river trickling peacefully along. Travis was studying three men camped at a bend in the river, almost a quarter mile downstream. The Texans had tracked the outlaws to here, almost twenty miles from the Laredo trail.

“That one standing is Rubio Medina,” Chase whispered, continuing to look through his field glasses.

“You sure?” Travis said in a low voice, looking at the suspect in question, a short, skinny, dark-skinned man wearing a bright green shirt. From this distance, few details were discernible, but Travis had learned over the years that his partner was rarely wrong, his vision acclaimed to be the best south of the Brazos River. “How can you tell?”

“I just can. The way he moves. Nobody else wears a big black and red sombrero. That’s his two brothers with him.”

“Really,” Travis said with interest, moving his glasses from the man standing to the other two bandits, lying under the shade of a small oak. “You think one of those is Paco?”

“He ain’t got but two brothers,” Chase answered.

“You know these thieves?” Tony said softly.

“Wretched lot of outlaws—horse thieves, murderers, marauders,” Travis answered. “One of those two under the tree is the chief federale for Coahuila. They do most of their plundering on the border or south of it. Likely up here because the arrival of the Mexican army has put them out of business down there.”

“He’s a thief and he’s the state police?” Chester asked. “No wonder the Mexicans are revolting.”

“Rubio’s the bad one—mean as a snake,” Chase continued. “They call him Diablo. Would rather cut your throat than look at you. Paco’s just as crooked, but he lets Rubio do most of the dirty work—covers for him most of the time. Don’t know the other brother, but with blood like that, he can’t be a saint.”

“What happened to the other three? We were tracking six,” Chester asked.

“Probably branched off to camp somewhere else. Mexican bandits usually break their campsites up into several locations,” Travis mumbled, scanning as far as the eye reached for anything unusual.

“I’m going to shoot that son of a bitch right now,” Chase said with a calm voice. “Rubio’s got a bounty on his head. We’ll just leave him right there for the coyotes and move on.”

“You can’t hit him from here,” Travis retorted.

“Yeah, I can,” Chase answered. “Tony, go get me that Kentucky long rifle and ammo pouch off my horse.”

“You’re just going to stir them up like a bunch of pissed-off fire ants,” Travis said, turning to look back at the river and the tiny image of the men in the distance. “Mexicans get worked up over family. You’ll probably rile ’em up even if you miss.”

“I’m not going to miss. They’ll never know what hit him. We’ll move out of here quietly and on to Goliad. I’ve been wanting a chance to shoot this bastard for several years—not going to pass up the chance. Besides, if I kill him, especially with this shot, word will get back to Goliad before we do. I’ll ride in there like a hero with all my admirers.”

“If you miss, you’ll be the laughingstock of the bar at Johnny’s tomorrow night,” Travis answered.

Chase grabbed the fifty-inch, nine-pound, maple-stock rifle from Tony and opened the small leather ammo pouch. He sat the rifle on the ground, butt first, and removed a wooden powder horn from the ammo bag. He carefully poured the fine black powder into the barrel, measuring the quantity meticulously as he slowly tapped the horn with his forefinger. He then removed a cotton patch and sphere-shaped, fifty-caliber ball from the pouch. He placed the patch on the end of the barrel and the slug in his mouth, wetting it nicely before placing it on the patch. With his thumb, he gently pushed the slug down the barrel, then removed the long, steel ramrod, stored below the stock, and rammed the slug to the base of the barrel, smoothly seating it against the powder with several light strokes.

Travis smiled at the other Rangers as he watched Chase take up a comfortable position on the bank, chest and elbows on the dirt. Chase made a small bench out of some rocks and rested the rifle, decorated with ornate brass, on the rocks. He cocked the rifle’s hammer and secured a tiny percussion cap to its tip.

“Get your pistols ready, boys. We may have a fight on our hands,” Travis murmured softly.

Chase pulled the curved silver plate of the butt securely to his shoulder and adjusted the double-set trigger, allowing the front trigger to collapse with a hair’s touch. He licked his finger and held it high to check the wind, more show than anything else, before putting his cheek to the stock.

Travis looked back at the creek. Rubio was still standing, glaring in the late-day sun. Travis and the other Rangers got deathly still. Travis felt his stomach move with apprehension and anticipation. A few seconds passed slowly. He heard the metallic click of the hammer fall, a small pop, and an instant fizzle before the earsplitting eruption. Travis trained his eyes on Rubio—maybe a second’s delay. The man tumbled backward. The hush held for a few more seconds before some screaming drifted up from the river.

Travis raised his glasses. The two men in the shade were scurrying for the cover of thicker brush, up the riverbank. He looked at Chase, who wore a big smile. “What a shot,” said Travis. “I’ll be forced to hear about this for years. Let’s get out of here. We’ll be lucky if any of us ride into Goliad by tomorrow.”

Chase stood up and dusted his pants. “You mean like the old bandit you gunned down up on the Brazos? You’ve exaggerated and retold that story so much, it’s nothing but a fable now.”

On Chase’s words, the five Rangers promptly mounted and struck out from the river, storming into the sage. The group rode hard for a half hour before they heeled atop the pinnacle of a hill, spelling their horses and allowing an inspection of the ground below.

“Our horses are pretty near spent for now. And we need to find some water,” Chase said, breathing heavily.

Travis looked at the horses, their coats dripping wet and spotted with salt lines. He patted his paint’s wet neck. The group was all staring into the valley below and the approaching cloud of unsettled dust. “They’re on our tail. Ground’s not fit for covering our tracks, and I don’t think we’re going to outrun them. We’re going to have to fight.” As he spoke, Travis pulled his Colt five-shot revolver from its holster. He checked to make sure it was fully loaded, then slowly spun the cylinder a few times to check its freedom, the action producing several eerie clicks. He held up the pistol, muzzle pointing skyward.

“Shouldn’t be difficult,” Chase said. “We’ll split up. I’ll take Chester and Private Fitzmorris with me. You and Tony will break off and double back behind this hill at a place where you won’t kick up much dust. We’ll drive on, making a big dust storm, and then find a place for good defense. That will suck them in, and you and Tony will come in from behind. We’ll get them from two directions.”

“All right,” Travis agreed, spurring his mount and settling in his saddle. “But don’t go more than a half mile or so. On this ground, it’s unlikely we’ll be able to stay behind them very long without being noticed. We’ll wait till we hear some shooting before we come in, to make sure you’ve got their attention.”

Travis had a worried look. From the shelter of a small grove of oaks, he and Tony watched the bandits’ trail, only a sand sprinkle moving above the rampant shrubs. Three black birds chirped in the trees, the only sound other than a wispy wind cutting across the plain. The two had managed to fall in behind the outlaws without being detected. But Travis was now watching the bandits divide into two groups, one flanking off to their right.

“Didn’t plan on this,” Travis said, still on horseback. “One of those groups is going to get ambushed, but the other will flank around and get Chase and Chester from the rear or come in behind us. Pretty good idea, but rare for these bandits. Either way, it complicates things.”

“Looks like it’s all five of them,” Tony added, looking down at the tracks below his horse. “What you want to do?”

Travis slowly rode out of the grove. “When the shooting starts, we’ll charge in. But on a flank, hopefully on some high ground with cover that can be easily defended. Get both bunches.”

No sooner had Travis gotten the words out of his mouth than the firing commenced. The shots unequivocally delineated Chase’s location; the Rangers’ novel Colts fired much faster than the flintlock revolvers common south of the border, also producing a much crisper and more distinctive bang. At a slow trot, Travis led Tony to a rock-strewn ravine, a hundred yards left of the firing, which had reached a crescendo. Also heard among the gunshots were a few shouts in English and Spanish. Travis looked at the ditch, figuring Chase and the Rangers were using it for the ambush. He put a finger over his lips as he stepped down from his stirrups, motioning Tony to do likewise.

Travis hunched low, pistol at the ready, and scurried through the brush, weaving around the cacti and cat-claw. He finally squatted behind a horse-sized boulder where the ravine bank dropped off sharply, wiping a dab of perspiration from his brow with a sleeve. Tony joined him. Beyond the boulder, in the ravine, shots danced off the rocks on each side of the dry creek bed and bullets zinged through the foliage. Travis eased up to steal a peek at the action. As he did, he heard a shriek, a loud scream in English. He could see that one of the bandits had crossed the draw and taken up a position in an elevated rock garden, commanding a good view of Chase’s position, fifty paces down the ravine. The labyrinth of stones was a patchwork of distorted dark colors, shade, and sun. Travis knelt back behind the cover and pointed. “There’s one over here. Sounds like he’s already shot somebody. Circle around and fill those rocks with bullets from the rear. When that flushes him out, I’ll shoot him.”

Travis patted Tony on the shoulder, and the young mestizo Ranger disappeared into the deep gorge. Travis followed, pausing in the shadow-draped ravine. He looked up at the opposite bank, where he planned to make his assault. The area was exposed; certainly he’d be in harm’s way. He counted the seconds, trying to speculate how long it would take Tony to get in position, not wanting to crawl into the open before he could shoot. He counted to ten as his heart moved up into his throat. All the commotion had kept his nerves calm, but only a few seconds of inactivity had gotten them going.

Travis searched the opposite bank for cover, anything—a small draw, a stub of vegetation, a rock. He ducked behind a little pear cactus, not much cover, and peered over the bank at the rock promontory. Fortunately for him, Tony simultaneously began to pepper the boulder complex. Travis scrambled over the loose rock, finally standing. He saw a head appear from the maze of stones. He drew a bead. It was a fifty-yard head shot. Without confidence, he charged onward. The bandit had turned his head, haphazardly firing a few shots behind him. Travis stopped at twenty yards. He put the side of the man’s head in his sights, paused his breathing, and pulled the trigger. His gun spoke only once, and the bandit fell from sight.

“I got him!” Travis yelled and dashed forward, leaping over a few rocks. The bandit lay on the ground in a death spasm, blood gushing from his head. Just for insurance, Travis put another shot in the man’s chest as his heart rate slowed. He turned his attention back to the ravine and the other gun battle; he had blocked it out during his assault. The shooting had stopped. He gave the area a diligent inspection: no movement or noise at all.

Travis exhaled a deep breath as he reached over and grabbed the bandit’s boot, dragging him a few paces to where the late-day sun illuminated his face. He put his foot on the outlaw’s greasy black mane, turning his face up. As he did, he heard a few footsteps pattering on the dirt behind him. His skin tingled and instinctively, he whirled around, pistol fully extended.

Paco was standing, flat-footed, on the bank of the ravine. The sinking sun amplified the Mexican’s cold, sly, killer eyes, filled with rage and locked on Travis, who cast his own harsh, unwavering stare on the Mexican federale.

Travis squinted his eyes, stared through his sights over the muzzle of Paco’s revolver, and sighted on his chest.

The part-time bandit wore shiny black leather and a gold necklace. His hair was raven black, with a rare streak of blond over his left ear. He had an inch-long scar under one eye and a long, stringlike beard that fell down to his neck. A white sombrero hung over his back.

“You killed my brother. Now it’s time for you to die,” Paco said calmly but with unmistakable earnestness.

“The scourge of the earth,” Travis answered, feeling a drop of cool sweat run down his back. He tried to lock his vision on Paco. He attempted to focus his whole body, everything, on the man’s chest, being sure not to get distracted by his eyes, his awful expression. “I’m not going anywhere. Take your best shot. You’ll be in hell in five minutes anyway.” As Travis spoke, as delicately as he could, he held his pistol tightly, squeezing his trigger, slowly increasing the pressure while continuing to badger the bandit. “I’m fixin’ to do the Mexican people a—”

At last, there was a crack and the recoil. Paco hunched over, snarling, cursing, and dropping his pistol. He grabbed his bleeding right forearm. Instead of striking the chest, Travis’s bullet had punctured the bandit’s arm. As Paco regained his composure, he dove to the ground, reaching for his pistol with his good arm.

Travis slowly cocked the hammer of his Colt as he watched the Mexican squirm on the ground. Instead of putting a second slug in the federale’s back, he could not resist firing a shot that intentionally missed by a few inches. He enjoyed watching the bloody bandit flinch in fear. With gratification filling his soul, Travis quickly cocked the Colt again. But this time, the chamber of his trusty sidearm jammed.

“Shit,” Travis mumbled to himself, working the cylinder with his free hand for a few seconds before dashing to cover.

Paco looked up and fired two shots with his off hand. Both ricocheted off the rocks. “I’m going to kill you, Ross,” he grunted, and laughed, struggling to his knees.

“Where you at, Tony?” Travis yelled as he crouched low, trying to free his jammed revolver.

“Hold on, I’m coming,” a muffled voice responded. “Had to go back across this creek to get there.”

Travis peeked over the boulder to see Paco getting to his feet. As he did, Travis heard gunshots, demented hollering, and horses rustling through the brush. Shortly, the horses broke from the cover to his left, carrying more bandits. From the depths of the ravine, Tony also appeared, instantly spraying Paco with three bullets that missed their mark.

Paco fired another reckless, vain shot at Travis, then turned to look behind him. Travis also looked. Chase and Chester, still out of shooting range, were making their way toward the skirmish. Paco stomped an embittered foot and stumbled toward the horses, clutching his wound in pain. One of the bandits raced forward, hoisted Paco onto his horse, and reared around, dashing back for the brush. Paco turned while atop the horse and took a final shot at Travis as the bandits disappeared.

Dazed and almost spent, Travis collapsed, falling to his buttocks, his tension abating. He reached up and mopped his now-saturated face with his sleeve—a calm now settling over the bloodstained turf. As he leaned his back against the cool rocks, he heard Chase and Chester stumble on the scene.

“Ya’ll get ’em?” he heard Chase ask Tony.

“One,” Tony replied softly.

“They got Fitzmorris. He’s dead,” Chase said, walking over and standing above Travis.

“I shot Paco in the arm,” Travis grunted with eyes still closed, thinking how stupid and unprofessional he had been by firing that teasing shot at Paco. Would he one day regret that? How much torment and suffering would the federale dish out to innocents in the future? He had let his emotions impede his job—a powerful disappointment.

“You think we should go after them?” Chase said.

“They’ve got a wounded man,” Travis sighed. “We could probably get them in a day or so. But we probably better move on. We’ve got more important business. Fannin is expecting us. We’ll get Paco another day.”