Bittner, Rosanne (4 page)

As
they came closer to the scene below, the stench of charred wood and burned
flesh hit their nostrils with a backlash of hot wind, and Ken wrinkled his
nose. "Damn. This looks like pretty dirty business. I think this is the
place where that old man lived with his daughter and her husband, ain't it?
McDowell, I think his name was."

"I
saw the man here once when I rode through, but I never saw the daughter out
here." John paid little attention to folks who lived within a day's ride
from Fort Bliss and El Paso. There was little left for them to worry about.
Most Indian raids had ended, and Comancheros seldom attacked so close to bigger
settlements. John's concern lay mostly with ranchers and tiny settlements much
farther away, in the interior, rugged country between here and the Apache and
Davis Mountains, as well as patrolling border country, where Mexican bandits
did their trading along the Rio Grande.

"We
seen the old man gettin' supplies once in El Paso," Ken commented.
"Remember? His daughter was with him then. Pretty thing, as I
remember."

John
shrugged. "I think I remember." He remembered, all right. He never
knew her name, but he'd noticed McDowell's redheaded daughter once in El Paso.
The little snob had turned away as soon as she spotted him, like all supposedly
decent white women did when they saw him. Heaven forbid they should be caught
looking twice at a half-breed. "Looks like the Army didn't do too well
protecting this place," he added, wanting to change the subject. He tipped
his hat to one of the soldiers, who stood next to a body barely distinguishable
as human.

"Damn!"
Ken muttered. "That's one of the worst things I've seen in a long
time." The man lay naked, most of his skin sliced off, his throat slit.
"You think he was alive when they took off the skin?"

John's
jaw twitched in disgust. "Most likely."

"From
what I can tell, he's younger than old man McDowell. Must be the woman's
husband. I ain't sure what his name was."

"Who
the hell are you?" one of the soldiers asked. "You Comanche? Apache?
You know something about this goddamn mess, Indian?"

John
dismounted, looking down on the young man, who only stood about five and a half
feet. "If I knew something about it, would I ride in here now? And I'm not
Apache
or
Comanche. Is there a Lieutenant Ames here?"

"You
know him?"

"I
know him."

The
young man looked John over derisively. "Well, maybe you're not one of the
savages usually found in these parts, but Indian is Indian far as I'm
concerned." He nodded toward the burned barn. "He's over there by
another body. An old man shot full of arrows like a pincushion. I don't know
how any man, Indian or not, can do what's been done here. Innocent ranchers,
that's all they were. These men died trying to defend wife and daughter, most
likely. We haven't found her yet. God help her if she's still with the ones who
did this."

John
did not reply. He led his horse toward the barn. Ken spit some tobacco juice at
the feet of the private who'd just talked to John. "You must be new."

The
young man straightened, putting his hands on his hips in a air of confidence.
"Yeah. So what?"

"You
just insulted one of the best men the Texas Rangers has workin' for them. He's
saved my life twice, and Indian or not, he's a good man. You ought to watch
your tongue when you ain't sure who you're talkin' to, soldier."

The
soldier looked a little embarrassed. "Who is he?"

"That
there is John Hawkins. I'll bet you've heard some of the other men talk about
him."

The
private turned to glance at John as he walked away. "I've heard of
him." He faced Ken again. "I've heard he's the meanest, most
cold-blooded son-of-a-bitch ever came to Texas. I ain't never heard him called
a good man."

Ken
spit another wad at the soldier's feet "Then you ain't never talked to the
people he's helped." He walked off behind John, shaking his head at the
cockiness of new recruits. He walked up to John, who was watching soldiers pull
arrows out of the other dead man's body. Another soldier stopped to vomit.

John
tipped his hat to Lieutenant Robert Ames, a man he knew well from having to
work with him. "Lieutenant."

Ames
nodded to John. "Hello, Hawk. Quite a mess, isn't it?"

John
looked around. "I'd say so." He turned back to the lieutenant.
"No sign of the woman?"

"Oh,
there's sign, all right." He pointed toward the house. "Over there.
Her clothes, torn to shreds. No body, though. You know what that means."

John
nodded grimly. They had taken the woman. If they'd stripped her first, they had
probably also raped her. Since they took her alive, they had plans to trade her
for guns, gold, whatever the Mexicans would give them for her. "Mind if I
look around?"

Ames
shrugged. "Be my guest. Maybe you can help us track her, unless you're
already on some other mission."

John
was surprised at the request. The Army and the Texas Rangers did not always get
along so well. Down here they were more in competition than willing to work
together. But then he'd been asked before to help with tracking. "Just
finished an assignment," he answered. "Caught up with some cattle
rustlers. We already returned what stolen cattle and horses we managed to round
up."

The
lieutenant looked around. "Where are the rustlers?"

John
puffed on his cigar a moment, looking around. "Gee, I guess there weren't
any left to bring back."

Ames
shook his head. "Don't tell me—"

"They
have to learn not to put up a fight, Lieutenant."

Ames
sighed, realizing the notorious John Hawkins had apparently failed again to
bring back live prisoners. "Well, be that as it may, nobody is better at
tracking than you. I wish you'd agree to scout for the Army full-time instead
of working for the meager pay of a Texas Ranger."

"Last
I knew, a scout's pay wasn't much better."

Ames
had to grin. "At least we furnish your supplies and your horse and
weapons."

John
nodded. "Well, I'm just not the type who likes to ride with a lot of men
and take orders. I've got more freedom as a Ranger." He left the
lieutenant to look around the ruins, actually hoping to find the woman's body
somewhere. She'd be better off dead and out of her misery. He found nothing. He
mounted his horse, a sturdy, golden palomino gelding, and rode the perimeter,
studying the tracks left from the raid. They were headed right for the Rio
Grande, just like he figured. He rode back to Ames, where Ken was helping
remove the last few arrows from the dead man's body. John remained mounted as
he spoke. "How long ago do you figure this happened?"

"No
longer than yesterday," Ames replied. "The bodies are rigid, but the
embers from the fires are still plenty warm."

"McDowell
was his name, wasn't it?"

Ames
nodded. "A nice family. The old man was Henry McDowell. He ranched here
with his daughter, Tess, a pretty, real outspoken spunk of a woman with bright
red hair. She was a small thing, but from the couple of times we patrolled here
and talked to her, I figured her to have a lot of sass. The one over there was
Abel Carey, her husband. He was kind of a meek, quiet sort. I got the
impression his wife bossed him around pretty good. They didn't seem to be much
alike." He removed the bandana at his neck and wiped at sweat on his face
and nape. "At any rate, if the renegades still have the woman, my bet is
she'll give them a hard time of it. She'll put up a fight. Trouble is, she'll
just get beat all the worse for it."

"You
sending men after her?"

"I
have to report back to the fort first, get reorganized. I don't have enough men
with me right now for something like that."

"That
will take another day or two. That could be too long for the woman. Once she
gets sold off, she'll be harder to track."

"Well,
I don't have any choice, Hawk. And you know how it is. Once they get her across
the border, I'm not allowed to go into Mexico. I have no authority there."

John
looked to the south. "Neither do I, but that's never stopped me
before."

"You
goin' after her, Hawk?" Ken asked.

John
thought about it a minute. He had always remembered the young woman with
sunset-colored hair he'd seen in El Paso. She'd been in the mercantile buying
flour and sugar and such. He'd been buying tobacco. He had only glanced at her,
and she had glanced at him, then looked away real quick-like. She was probably
a stuck-up prude who didn't deserve being rescued by a man she'd rather spit
on, but she for
sure
didn't deserve being treated the way he knew she
was being treated now. Nobody deserved that. "Well," he said aloud,
"she is a citizen of Texas, and we're supposed to do what we can for
Texans, aren't we?"

"You're
gonna' be in enough trouble explainin' about what we done to Briggs," Ken
reminded him. "You know we ain't supposed to go over the border any more
than the Army is."

"I
know." John faced his friend. "I won't be the one telling Captain
Booth what happened to Briggs. I'll let you do that."

Ken
walked over and mounted his horse, riding up closer to John. "How is it I
knew you'd do this to me? You're just lookin' for an excuse not to have to tell
Booth yourself, and you're usin' that redheaded woman for your excuse." He
scratched at his cheek, still needing a shave. "You plannin' to get that
gal away all by yourself? Hell, there could be twenty men in on this. You know
what big packs Comancheros run in."

John
watched the horizon. "One man or ten. Makes no difference to me." He
drew deeply on the cigar he still smoked.

"
'Course not, crazy fool that you are. Damn it, Hawk, let's go report to Booth
together, and then you can let me go with you to Mexico."

John
shook his head. "No. You go on to camp and report in. Somebody has to tell
Booth what's been going on. I'll go to Mexico on my own. That way you won't get
in any trouble. Besides, there are some jobs I can handle better alone."

"Maybe
so. But can you
take
them by yourself?"

"Well,
we'll just see, won't we?" John looked down at Lieutenant Ames. "I'm
heading for Mexico."

Ames
shook his head. "I never meant to make you think you should follow up on
this yourself, Hawk."

"This
can be handled by either the Army or the Rangers. You're welcome to go ahead
and send a patrol on their trail, but I aim to get a head start. You could get
there too late. You have some supplies along I could take with me? A little
tobacco, some coffee, beans, whatever. I don't need much. I can always shoot
what I need for meat."

Ames
shook his head. John Hawkins never ceased to amaze him. He seemed not the least
bit worried about going after a gang of Comancheros alone. He turned to one of
the soldiers beside him. "See what you can rustle up for Hawkins," he
told the man. He looked back up at John, thinking that if John were stripped
half naked like a Comanche or Apache, a person who didn't know better would
think he was just one of them. "You're actually looking forward to this,
aren't you? You're a warrior yourself at heart, Hawk."

John
grinned. "Maybe so."

"Damn
it, Hawk, you're still wounded from that last run-in," Ken reminded him.

"Wounded?
You hurt, Hawk?" Ames asked.

"Just
a bump on the head and a little cut on my back. I'm mending all right I heal
better when I'm up and about. Don't like lying around, unless it's in some
friendly woman's bed."

The
lieutenant laughed. "I can't argue with that one. How did you get
hurt?"

"This
damn crazy fool—"

"We
just had a little encounter with some cattle thieves," John interrupted
before Ken could finish the statement. He cast Ken a look of warning. "We
took care of them."

Ames
nodded. "I expect you did."

John
stuck the cigar between his lips again and nodded to Ken. "Might see you
again. Might not." He motioned for Ken to follow and rode over to where
the soldier who'd gone for supplies was rummaging through a pack horse's load.
"Soften up that dynamite story the best you can," he told Ken while
he waited. "Blame me for all of it if you want. Booth knows I don't listen
to anybody once I've made up my mind."

"Yeah.
Sure. I just wish you'd wait and let me go with you."

"There
you go, worrying again."

The
private held up a gunnysack. "A few potatoes, a can of beans, small sack
of coffee, some tobacco, and flour," he told John. "Good luck, Mr.
Hawkins."

"Thanks."
John tied the sack around his saddle horn. He turned to Ken. "See you in a
few days, or a few weeks."

"Or
never," Ken scowled.

John
grinned. "Depends if it's a good day to die when I reach those
Comancheros."

"Maybe
it will be overcast," Ken answered.

John
sobered. "Maybe." He put out his hand. "See you later, my
friend."