The Alamosa Trail Read online

  When Jim, Frank, Barry, and Gene heard the gunshot, Jim held up his hand to stop the others.

  “Where did it come from?” Barry asked.

  “Over there, on the other side of that little ridge, I think,” Gene answered.

  “Frank, hold the horses,” Jim ordered. “Barry, Gene, come with me.”

  With pistols in hand, Jim, Barry, and Gene dismounted, moved at a crouch toward the ridge, then slipped up to the crest.

  “Mama, you got it!” they heard a female voice say in English.

  Jim looked over the rise of the hill and saw three women moving toward a goat. Though hit, the goat was still twitching.

  “He’s not dead,” one of the girls said.

  “Get a stick,” the older of the three said. “I’ll finish killing him.”

  “Oh, Mama, are you going to hit him? Wouldn’t it be more humane to shoot him again?”

  “I don’t want to waste any more bullets,” the older of the three women said. “If Shardeen and Whitey come after us, we may need them.”

  “I have a knife,” Jim offered, standing suddenly and starting down the hill toward the three women. “I’ll finish him off for you.”

  The older of the three women swung her pistol around toward Jim and cocked it.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “The name is Jim Robison, ma’am. And like you, I’m an American.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “My pards and I have come down here to get a herd of horses. The question is, what are you three doing here?”

  “Believe me, we aren’t here by choice. What do you mean, your partners?”

  “They’re up there,” Jim said, nodding toward the crest of the ridgeline. “Why don’t you lower that hog leg, and I’ll have them come on down?”

  Katie thought about it for a moment, then, with a sigh, lowered her pistol. If they really did have her covered, it would be suicide for her daughters and her if she tried anything now. Besides, whoever they were, they weren’t Shardeen and Whitey.

  “My name is Katie Kincaid,” she said. “These are my two daughters, Marilou and Brenda.”

  Jim turned toward the ridge. “Gene, Barry, get Frank and you boys come on down,” he called out. After that, he started toward the still-twitching goat. Using his knife, he made a quick cut of the jugular vein. The goat bled profusely for a moment then stopped twitching.

  “I’ll get some wood for a fire,” Barry offered.

  “I haven’t invited you to join us,” Katie said.

  “No, ma’am, you haven’t,” Jim replied. “But it seems to me like there might be enough here to feed all of us. That is, if you don’t mind a little company.”

  Katie thought about it for a moment

  “Mama, if Shardeen and Whitey show up, it might be good to have someone around,” Marilou said.

  Jim was in the process of skinning the goat, and when he heard Marilou say Shardeen’s name, he looked up quickly.

  “Did you say Shardeen?”

  “Yes,” Katie answered. “Is this man Shardeen a friend of yours?”

  Jim shook his head. “I’d hardly call him a friend,” he said, “though I have made his acquaintance Why would he be showing up?”

  “He captured us,” Katie said.

  “Captured you?”

  “He came to our ranch, killed my husband and son, then took the three of us captive. He was going to sell us.”

  “What do you mean, sell you?” Barry asked, surprised by the comment. “Sell you to do what?”

  Katie just stared at him.

  Then, realizing what she meant, Barry said, “Oh,” blushing profusely.

  “We are trying to get back home to Texas,” Katie said. “‘If you will help us, if you will be our protection, I’ll pay you. I can’t pay you until we get back, of course, because I have no money with me. But I will pay you what I can when we get back home.”

  “Right now, it’s all we can do to protect ourselves,” Jim said. “We just lost three of our number.”

  “Lost? Lost how?”

  “I mean we just had three of our friends shot and killed,” Jim explained.

  “By who? Who is after you?”

  “As nearly as I can tell, the Federales are after us.”

  “The Mexican police? Why? What have you done?”

  “That’s just it. We ain’t done nothin’,” Gene said.

  “The police don’t come after you for no reason at all. Not even the Mexican police,” Katie said.

  “Until this moment, I had no idea why they were after us,” Jim said. “But after what you just told us, I think I’m beginning to see. I believe they came after us thinking we was the ones that killed your man and your boy.”

  Katie ran her hand through her hair, then nodded. “That might be the case,” she said. “If so, I’m sorry you got caught up in our troubles. Especially your friends who were killed. But I must say I’m glad someone knows about us and is trying to do something, even if they are after the wrong men.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I reckon I can see your point,” Jim said as he finished skinning the goat. “I just wish they’d been a mite more sure before they started shootin’ at us, is all.”

  By now Barry had a fire roaring. Jim rose from his task.

  “Well, he’s skinned and gutted, and there’s a fire goin’ so you can cook him. But goat’s no good without salt. I’ve got plenty of that. What do you say? Are we sharing?”

  Katie nodded. “We’re sharing,” she said.

  It took the goat a couple of hours to cook, though it had been cut into smaller pieces. The aroma was doubly enticing to the exceptionally hungry people, and even before it cooled, they began eating hot pieces of the meat, tossing the meat from hand to hand, blowing and nibbling at it.

  Katie studied the men. Jim, the oldest, was about her age. The other three were younger, much closer to the age of her two daughters. Though she believed that she and her daughters might have been better off had they avoided any contact with men at all, she didn’t think that this bunch represented any danger to her. And they were American. That helped. Finally she came to a decision.

  “Me and my girls will just tag along with you, if you don’t mind,” she said.

  “I told you, ma’am, we aren’t going back to Texas. Leastwise, not till we get them horses,” Jim replied.

  “What’s so all-fired important about getting those horses?”

  “We’ve been paid half the money for a job,” Jim said. “We won’t get the other half until we deliver the horses. I want that money.”

  “Yes, I can understand that. But I am willing to pay you an amount equal to what you would get if you delivered the horses.”

  “I appreciate that, ma’am, but I don’t hold with takin’ pay for something I don’t do. We’ve already drawn the first half of our pay on the promise that we would deliver the horses, and that’s what I aim to do.”

  Katie nodded. “I admire you for that, Mr. Robison,” she said. “Where are the horses?”

  “In Durango.”

  “You say you just lost three of your men?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Like I said, we got involved in a shootout back in Escalon. Tennessee, Ken, and Chad were killed.”

  “Then I reckon that makes you short by three wranglers,” Katie said. “If I can’t pay you one way, I’ll pay you another. We’ll be your extra wranglers.”

  “You’re women,” Frank said with a sniggering laugh.

  “Wrangling is hard work,” Jim replied in a nicer tone.

  “We may be women but we are ranchin’ women,” Katie replied. “Believe me, we are no strangers to hard work.”

  “Why would you even want to do such a thing?” he asked.

  “Because I’m not sure I can I can get us back to Texas without help. Also, there is safety in numbers. Not only against Shardeen, but against anyone else who might try something.”

  “Mama,” Brenda said, apprehensively, “how do you kn
ow these men are safe?”

  “Honey, anyone who intends to wrangle a herd of horses all the way back to Texas is too dumb to be dangerous,” Katie said matter-of- factly.

  Jim laughed. “All right, ma’am,” he finally said after he finished laughing. “You and your two daughters are welcome to come along.”

  Chapter 13

  When Hector Ortega returned to the little town of Escalon, it was abuzz with excitement. There were seven bodies lying in the square. Four of the bodies were Mexican, including Gonzales’s diputado, Juan Reyna. The slain deputy and villagers were being mourned by Reyna’s wife, the widows of the other slain villagers, as well as several black-shawled women.

  The other three bodies, separated from the Mexicans by some twenty yards, were Americans. Two of the Americans had been killed during the battle in town. The third was found about five miles away. He had been badly wounded as he rode away and had apparently died on the trail. No one was weeping for the Americans, though several dozen of the villagers were gathered around them, drawn by a gruesome curiosity.

  The village padre had been comforting the widows of the slain. Now he left them and walked over to the three American bodies. He stood looking down at them for a moment, then he raised his hand with the thumb extended, the forefinger and middle finger raised, and the ring finger and little finger folded. It was the traditional sign of the cross, preparatory to the bestowing of the blessing.

  “No!” Gonzales shouted to the priest. “You will not bless these gringos.”

  “They are God’s children,” the priest replied. “I cannot, in good conscience, let any of God’s children enter the hereafter without proper rites.”

  “Why bother? They are probably not even Catholic,” Gonzales said.

  “They are still God’s children.”

  “They killed Juan Reyna. They are murderers. Let them go to hell.”

  “I cannot do that. I will bless them,” the padre said.

  Gonzales pulled his pistol and pointed it at the priest. When he pulled the hammer back, it made a deadly double-click as the sear engaged the cylinder. “If you bless them, I will kill you where you stand,” he said in a cold flat voice.

  Upon hearing the deadly words, the assembled villagers gasped in surprise.

  The padre stared at Gonzales for a long moment. Gonzales continued to hold the gun on him, the barrel unwavering. The villagers were absolutely quiet. Then, resolutely making the sing of the cross, the priest made his blessing.

  Gonzales’s face grew almost purple-red and the vein in his temple began to throb. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a snarl.

  “Hijo de puta!” he shouted, enraged by the priest’s actions. Still, he put the pistol away, shoving it back into his holster.

  Again the villagers gasped, this time over the audacity of their police chief calling a priest the son of a whore. Many of them prayed silently for the soul of Gonzales, who surely had damned himself by such a rash act. Others made the sign of the cross for the prayer that was answered, in that Gonzales did not kill the priest as he had threatened.

  Ortega watched it all. Then he walked over and looked down at the bodies of Ken, Tennessee, and Chad. Even though he had ridden the trail with them, had camped out with them, shared food and canteen with them, he felt absolutely no sense of sorrow.

  “So, Senor Tennessee,” Ortega said quietly, “you are not so full of fight now, are you?” Ortega looked over toward Gonzales, who, after being showed up by the priest, was walking away, mumbling to himself.

  “Sargento,” Ortega called to him.

  Gonzales stopped and turned toward Ortega. “Sí?”

  Ortega waved his hand toward the bodies. “Who are these gringos? What happened here?”

  Gonzales stared at Ortega for a moment. “Do I know you, senor?”

  “No. I am from Mexico City,” Ortega lied.

  “I believe I have seen you.”

  “Impossible. I’ve never been here before,” Ortega said. “These men, what happened?”

  “They are very bad men,” Gonzales said. “In Texas, they killed a father and son. Then they stole the wife and daughters. I believe they are going to sell the women to the bandidos in the hills.”

  “They made the mistake of coming to your village,” Ortega suggested.

  A large smile spread across Gonzales’s face, and he nodded enthusiastically over the unexpected endorsement.

  With his pride somewhat restored, Gonzales walked back toward the three American bodies. The priest was just finishing his blessing.

  “They made a mistake,” Gonzales said loudly, pointing to the three bodies. “They came to Escalon.” He tapped his breast with the ends of his fingers. “They came to my village,” he added. “And you can see what happens to outlaws who come to my village.”

  One of the black-shawled women who had been weeping over the bodies of the Mexicans now looked over toward Gonzales. She was surprised to see that the man who was standing behind Gonzales was the same man she had encountered at the well. That man had identified himself as the chief of the gringos. Could this possibly be the same person?

  Her eyes were old and not as good as they once were, and she could not be sure until she got a closer look. So she started walking toward him.

  Ortega saw the old woman almost as quickly as she saw him. He saw, too, that she was moving closer for a better look. That meant that she wasn’t yet sure of his identity, but she had a strong suspicion. And as soon as she recognized him, she would make the connection between him and the three dead Americans.

  Slowly but deliberately, Ortega remounted. With a small click of his tongue, he turned his horse away from the plaza.

  “It is him,” the old woman said. Raising a shaking hand, she pointed a long, bony finger toward Ortega. “He was with them.”

  No one paid any attention to her.

  “He was with them,” the old woman said again, loudly this time, and she got Gonzales’s attention.

  “What are you talking about old woman?” Gonzales said.

  “‘When the gringos came into the village, that man was riding with them,” the old woman said. “I gave him water to drink. He told me he was their chief.”

  Ortega immediately slapped his feet against the sides of his horse. The animal bolted forward like a ball from a cannon.

  “I knew I had seen him before!” Gonzales said. He turned toward Ortega just in time to see the horse bolt forwards. “Alto!” he shouted.

  Ortega bent low over the horse’s neck. Gonzales drew his pistol, and this time he didn’t hesitate to use it. He fired, but missed.

  “Shoot him!” Gonzales shouted. “Someone shoot him!”

  Angrily, Gonzales looked around at the others. “Pull your weapons, you idiots! Shoot him! He is one of the murderers!”

  Bullets now whistled by Ortega’s head as he pounded his heels into the animal’s back. Not one bullet hit him.

  “After him! After him! We must run him down!” Gonzales shouted.

  Despite Gonzales’s urgings, there was very little likelihood that Ortega could be run down. None of the villagers were mounted, nor were any of the horses even saddled. Ortega made good his escape, leaving Gonzales to fume in the dusty street, the sergeant’s pistol still clutched tightly in his fist.

  Because of his age, and because he was a natural leader listened to by the others, Jim Robison had become the undisputed ramrod of the little group of riders. Jim and his friends, along with Katie and her daughters, were camped for the night on the banks of a small, swiftly running stream. Here the water was cool and clear and they were able to fill their canteens and boil a pot of coffee. They cooked rice, augmented by a couple of rabbits, some wild onions and freshly picked mushrooms.

  “What are we going to do if Ortega don’t show up again?” Frank asked as they ate.

  ‘We’ll get the horses and start back without him,” Jim said.

  “How do you know they’ll give ’em to us?”

>   “According to Clay Allison, the horses have already been bought and paid for. They have no choice in the matter. They’ll have to give ’em to us,” Jim insisted.

  “Right. And if they don’t, we’ll just go to the law,” Gene said. “That is, if the law don’t shoot us as soon as they see us.”

  “We’ve got no problem with the law now,” Barry said. “I mean, we’ve got the women with us. All we have to do is have them say it wasn’t us that took ’em.”

  “And are they just going to forget about the men we killed back in Escalon?” Frank asked.

  “So what do you think, Jim? What will we do about that?” Barry asked.

  “Our best bet is just to get the horses, then get ourselves back on up to Texas,” Jim answered. “I plan to shake the dirt of Mexico from my boots soon as I can.”

  “Texas, yes,” Katie said. “That sounds good to me.”

  “I don’t know why you are so anxious to get back,” Marilou said. “There’s nothing back there for us.”

  “What do you mean?” Katie asked.

  “Pa’s dead. Nate’s dead. What’s left?”

  “The ranch,” Katie said. “Your pa and I cleared land, battled Indians, drought, locusts, bankers, and Yankee carpetbaggers to build that ranch. There is no way I’m going to walk away from it now. We’re going back to Texas to bury our dead. Then we’ll get on with the livin’. It’s what women have always done and we’re no different.”

  As Jim listened to Katie talk to her daughters, he couldn’t help but admire her. He had never taken himself a wife, had never really wanted to settle down. But now, seeing Katie with her daughters, he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t missed out on something.

  “We goin’ to stay here for the night?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Jim said. “Frank, you take the first watch.”

  “Jim. Jim, you awake?”

  Jim stirred in his bedroll, and Gene shook him again. “Wake up,” he said.

  Jim grunted.

  “Damn, the older you get, the harder you are to wake up.”

  “I’m awake,” Jim said.

  “Maybe it’s time you quit cowboyin’,” Gene suggested.