The Alamosa Trail Page 14

  “What’s up?” Barry asked.

  “Someone’s shootin’ at us!”

  The other men reacted instantly to the warning, for they were trail-wary and knew the danger of hesitation. But the women were less responsive and they paused for a moment, unsure of what was going on or what to do. They were spared only because Shardeen didn’t want them hit. The women would be worthless to him dead.

  When a second bullet kicked up dirt nearby, then whined on beyond them, Katie jumped into action. “Follow the men!” she shouted, kicking her own horse. Her two daughters followed suit.

  A short, quick gallop brought them to a ridgeline that was extended by an outcropping of rocks. All seven of them dashed behind the cover, putting the ridge between them and the shooters.

  Jim swung down from his horse, his rifle in hand. Frank, Barry, and Gene joined him. The girls dismounted and also sought safety behind the rocks. Katie grabbed the reins of all seven horses.

  “What are you doing? Get down!” Jim shouted when he saw her.

  “You want these horses to bolt?” Katie asked. “I have no intention of being left afoot.”

  With a nod of assent, Jim waved her on up the ridgeline, even as bullets were whistling overhead. Jim crawled up to the top of the ridge and looked across the draw to the rocks on the other side. As he was looking, he saw two flashes as their assailants snapped off another couple of shots at them.

  “Shoot at them!” Jim shouted. “Keep their heads down!”

  Frank, Barry, and Gene began firing, jacking shells into their rifle chambers, firing, then working the lever again. In this way they kept up a deadly fusillade that kept their assailants at bay. That was exactly what Jim wanted, for it gave him the opportunity to slip, unobserved, to a location about twenty-five yards down the ridge. When he was in position he gave the signal for the other three to stop shooting.

  Abrubtly, the gunfire stopped, chased by returning echoes from across the ridge. There was a long period of silence and Jim held his finger to his lips, indicating to Barry and the others that he wanted the cease-fire maintained.

  “What happened to ’em?” Jim heard a voice ask. It was the voice of one of the assailants.

  “I don’t know,” another voice answered.

  “You think they skedaddled?”

  “Stick your head up there and have a look.”

  That was what Jim was waiting for. Laying his cheek alongside the walnut stock of his Winchester, he peered through the rear sight, centered the front sight, and waited.

  He almost pulled the trigger when he saw a hat come up, but he held his fire. He was glad he did when he realized that the hat was on the end of a rifle.

  A moment after the hat disappeared behind the rock, it reappeared, this time on someone’s head. Jim squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle boomed and kicked back against his shoulder. Through the drifting smoke of the discharge, Jim saw the assailant slump forward, his rifle clattering down the rocks in front of him, finally ending up on the ground below.

  “Whitey?” a voice called. “Whitey, you hit?”

  Jim jacked another shell into the chamber and waited for another head to appear, but there was none. Instead, he heard the clatter of hoofbeats as a horse galloped away.

  “They’re runnin’!” Frank called. He started to climb up for a better look, but Jim held out a cautioning hand.

  “Wait,” Jim said. “That was only one horse.”

  “You think they’s more of ’em?” Barry asked.

  “I don’t know. Hard to figure only two men attacking four.”

  “Maybe not,” Frank said. “Bein’ as they were in good position like that, could be they figured on droppin’ two of us with the first two shots. Then the odds would be even and they would still have the position.”

  “That’s true,” Jim agreed. He rubbed his cheek for a moment. “All right, I’ll have a look.”

  Warily, Jim climbed over the top of the ridgeline he had been using for cover. Then he started across an opening toward the next ridge. He kept his eyes on the crest, waiting for any shape or shadow that might show up against the skyline. But nothing appeared.

  Paying no immediate attention to the body, Jim climbed to the top of the ridge from which the assailants had staged their ambush. He looked around. Except for one rider in the distance, he saw no one. Climbing back up to the crest, he waved his hand over his head, signaling that all was clear.

  Frank, Barry, and Gene jogged across the opening then. They were followed a moment later by Katie and her daughters. The women had divided up the horses so that she was leading three, while each of her daughters led two.

  Jim was looking down at the body when the others arrived. The blood around the bullet hole in the slain man’s temple seemed exceptionally crimson when contrasted with the man’s white hair and nearly white skin.

  “Damn,” Gene said. “Look at that. I don’t think I ever seen a body get so pale so fast.”

  “He always looked like that,” Kate said, arriving at that moment. “They called him Whitey.”

  Jim recalled then that he had heard someone shout that name out during the fight.

  “What would make a fella so pasty-faced?” Gene asked.

  “I don’t know,” Katie admitted.

  “He’s what they call an albino,” Jim explained.

  “An albino? I’ll be damned. I’ve heard of them. Don’t think I’ve ever seen one before,” Gene said.

  Jim looked at Katie. “Is this one of the men who captured you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Katie replied. “The son of a bitch who got away is called Shardeen.”

  “Mama!” Brenda gasped. “I thought you told us never to use words like that.”

  “I did,” Katie replied. “But I also told you to always tell the truth. And the only way you can refer to Shardeen truthfully is to call him a son of a bitch.”

  Jim and the others laughed at Katie’s declaration, yet they were all respectfully aware of the reason she spoke of him in such vitriolic terms.

  Shardeen rode hard, looking over his shoulder often to see if anyone was following him. It hadn’t been a very smart move, firing on four men like that. But he figured if he and Whitey could get one apiece with the opening shots, they could kill the other two before they even realized what was happening to them. Then the women would’ve been easy pickings. It would’ve worked, too, if that damn Whitey hadn’t missed.

  Hell, it was all Whitey’s fault. As far as Shardeen was concerned, gettin’ hisself killed was good enough for the son of a bitch.

  Shardeen had had enough of Mexico with its rocks, desert, cacti, scorpions, and Mexicans. He didn’t care if he never heard another word of Spanish, and he didn’t care if he never saw those damned women again.

  Chapter 16

  Hector Ortega was having a drink when someone came into the cantina with news that seven gringos had just ridden into the village of Durango. The number was significant to Ortega, because he had left Texas with seven gringos. But three had been killed back in Escalon. So how could there still be seven?

  “How many gringos did you say there were?” Ortega asked.

  “Seven. Four men and three women.”

  Four men, Ortega thought. That number was right. If three of them had been killed at Escalon, then there would be four remaining. But who were the women? Where had they come from?

  Ortega recalled, then, that he had heard something about a group of Americans capturing three women, a mother and two daughters. And even though he knew that Jim Robison and the others weren’t guilty of that, the village of Escalon had thought them to be, thus bringing on the gunfight.

  Ortega poured a glass of tequila for the man who had brought the information. “Senor, the three women. Tell me about them.”

  The man with the information held up his glass. “Gracias,” he said. Before answering, he drank his drink; then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What do you wish to know?”


  “Is one old and the others young?”

  The man with the information grabbed his crotch. “The old one is not too old, and the young ones are not too young,” he said with a leering grin.

  The others laughed.

  “It is the mother and daughters,” Ortega said, almost to himself. “How is it that they are with my vaqueros?”

  “Your vaqueros, senor? But they are gringos. How can they be your vaqueros?”

  “Gringos, yes,” Ortega said. “But they are my vaqueros, because I am their chief,” he said with haughty bluster. “Perhaps I had better go see these men and learn why they have three women with them.”

  Jim and the men were watering the horses while Katie and her daughters had gone into a store to buy some much needed supplies. Barry was the one who first saw Ortega coming toward them, picking his way gingerly through the horse droppings in the plaza.

  “Well, now, lookie here,” Barry said. “If it isn’t our long-lost pard.”

  “That son of a bitch ain’t no pard of mine,” Frank insisted.

  “Mine, either,” Gene said.

  “Take it easy, boys,” Jim said. “He has to be our pard for a little while longer. At least until we get the horses back to Clay Allison.”

  “All right, if you say so, Jim. I reckon I’ll go along with it for now,” Frank said. “But once we get them horses delivered, me and the senor there, is goin’ to have us a little set-to.”

  Ortega pasted a big smile on his face as he approached the men. “I have been waiting for you,” he said. “Where have you been? We have work to do.”

  “Where have we been?” Jim replied. “We waited in Escalon for you, just as you said. Why didn’t you come back?”

  “Oh, I did come back,” Ortega said. “But when I returned, I learned that there had been a big fight between you and the poor people of the village. You are not very popular in my country now, senors. I am told that you killed many of my people.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, we didn’t kill enough of them,” Frank said. “They started shootin’ at us for no reason.”

  “They believed they had a reason,” Ortega said. “They believed you to be the men who captured three white women.” Looking up, he saw Katie, Marilou, and Brenda coming back from the store, carrying several packages. “These women, perhaps?” he added. He smiled again, bowed slightly, and touched the brim of his sombrero. “Buenas días, senora and senoritas.”

  “Who is this?” Katie asked.

  “This is Hector Ortega,” Jim said. “He is the hombre I told you about, the fella who knows where the horses are.” Jim looked pointedly, at Ortega. “You do know where the horses are, don’t you?”

  “Sí, senor,” Ortega answered.

  “Well, if you don’t mind, lead us to them and let’s get started back. I don’t mean no offense to your country and all, but I do believe I’ve had just about as much of Mexico as I can stomach.”

  “You got that right,” Gene said.

  “Yeah, I’d like to get started back today,” Frank added.

  Ortega shook his head. “I don’t think you can get started back today. I think, maybe, it will take one week.”

  “One week? Why so long?” Jim asked.

  “The horses,” Ortega said. “Senor Allison will want the horses broken before we take them to him, I think.”

  “The horses aren’t broken? You mean you’ve brought us all the way down here to round up a bunch of wild horses?” Jim asked, angrily.

  “You will not have to gather the horses,” Ortega said. “The horses have already been caught and are in a corral. But Senor Allison wants them broken before we deliver them.”

  “Nobody said anything about breaking horses,” Gene said.

  “I think maybe if you knew you would not come,” Ortega replied.

  “You’re damn right we wouldn’t have come,” Gene added.

  “Look here, Oretega. Are you telling us that Allison knew about this? And he expects us to break five hundred horses?” Barry asked.

  “Sí, this is true, I think.”

  “What do you think, Jim?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jim replied. “Before we lost Tennessee, Chad, and Ken, maybe we could’ve done it. But being as we’re three men short, I just don’t know.”

  “I know some men,” Ortega said. “They will work for not very much money. They will help break the horses.”

  “So what are we going to do, Jim?”

  Jim sighed and stroked his chin. “I don’t see that we have much choice in the matter,” he said. “We’ve been through a lot to get here. Damn if I’m going to go back home without them horses.” He looked at Ortega. “Where are they?”

  “They are very near,” Ortega answered.

  “All right, take us to them. Then get me three, no, make it five men who are good with horses.”

  “Sí, senor.”

  Frank laughed loudly at the sight of Barry rolling in the dirt after having been thrown. “That was about the funniest thing I ever seen,” he said, still chuckling.

  “Maybe you ought to try and ride that one, Frank,” Gene suggested.

  “If I do, you can bet I’ll do a lot better job than Barry just did.”

  “How much better?”

  “I’ll stay on him.”

  “Think so?” Gene asked.

  “Five dollars says I will. Bring him over here,” Frank said. “I’ll ride him without bein’ throwed even once.”

  “That’s a pretty high order you’ve set for yourself,” Gene said.

  “Ain’t settin’ it no higher’n I can do,” Frank insisted. “You won’t see me rollin’ in the dirt like our friend here.” He nodded toward Barry, who was using the crown of his Stetson to brush off the seat of his pants.

  “Maybe I’ll just take you up on that little bet,” Gene said.

  The place where the boys were working the horses was about five miles south of Durango. They had set up camp there, and for two days they and the five Mexican riders Ortega found had been breaking horses.

  Begrudgingly, Jim had to admit that the Mexican riders were quite good because they were halfway through breaking the entire herd. Much further along than he would have ever believed possible.

  Katie and her two daughters had set up their own camp right alongside the boys, making themselves useful by cooking the meals and by separating the horses that were broken and those that weren’t.

  Barry looked at Frank, contemplating the wager Gene had just made with him.

  “All right, Mr. Smarty Pants, if you are serious about that five-dollar bet you just made with Gene, how ’bout lettin’ me have some of it?”

  “You got it. Ricardo!” Frank called to one of the squat, serious-looking vaqueros they had hired. “Bring that cayuse over here!”

  With the promise of a little entertainment, the others quit what they were doing and climbed the fence to sit on the top rail so that they could watch. Even Jim was interested in seeing whether or not Frank could make good on his wager. Katie and her two daughters came over to watch as well. They stood on the ground and looked through the rails.

  The horse, jerking against the lead and kicking up its back feet, showed its protest at being in harness.

  “Bring him over here to the fence,” Frank said. “I need to get a good seat if I’m goin’ to do this.”

  “You’ll need more than a good seat,” Gene said. “You’ll need a miracle.”

  “Well, for five dollars I reckon I’ll just call one of them up for you,” Frank said, smiling. When the horse was in place, Frank climbed the fence, then swung his leg over the saddle, holding it there for a minute before he actually swung aboard.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Gene teased him.

  “Don’t rush me,” Frank replied. “To do somethin’ like this you got to get it just right the first time.”

  There was an extended period of silence as everyone waited to see what would happen next. Slowly, the reins we
re passed up to Frank, while two men continued to hold the horse by its halter.

  “Now!” Frank shouted.

  The two men let go of the halter, and the horse exploded away from the fence. It jumped straight up, then came down on stiff legs before kicking up its hind quarters.

  “Hang on, Frank! Hang on!” Barry called.

  Then Frank did a strange thing. He leaned forward and took the horse’s ear between his teeth. He chomped down.

  The horse let out a whinny of pain.

  When the horse bucked harder, Frank bit harder. When the horse eased up, Frank eased up. It didn’t take the horse long to learn the lesson. The more it bucked, the more severe the pain in his ear. The less he bucked, the less severe. After a matter of only a few seconds, the bucking stopped altogether.

  “Hey! That ain’t no fair!” Gene called. “You didn’t say nothin’ ’bout biting!”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t say he couldn’t bite the horse’s ear, either,” Jim said, still laughing. “Looks like he beat you pretty good.”

  Frank, with a big smile on his face, and with the horse stepping out smartly and well under control, paraded the animal around the corral. The other men laughed and offered their congratulations.

  “All right, here’s your money,” Gene said when Frank got down from the now broken horse.

  “You are a gracious loser, my friend,” Frank said as he relieved Gene of the money.

  Chapter 17

  Clay Allison was sitting in the back of the Silver Nugget Saloon in Alamosa, Colorado, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and playing a game of solitaire. It had been several days since he had pulled the dentist’s teeth, shot up the town wearing only his hat, then passed out naked on the saloon stairs.

  Since that time men, women, and even the children pointed him out on the street, laughing as they told and retold the story of him lying “shiny-ass-up on the stairs.”

  It was an unfamiliar situation for Clay. He was used to being feared, not ridiculed. In addition, Clay was normally a gregarious man who depended upon social intercourse, friendly games of chance, and a certain degree of hero worship. Now that he was the target of derision, few people wanted anything to do with him. As a result, he started withdrawing more and more into himself, drinking more and more as he did so.