Blood on the Verde River (3 page)

“What's our next town?” JD asked as they rode on.

“A place on the Salt River with a water mill that they call Hayden's Mill.”

Jesus nodded as the packhorses followed him.

 

 

They stabled the horses late at night, located an open café, ate spicy Mexican food, and found a rooming house to sleep in for a few hours. By sunup, they were on the road.

Chet was pleased with their progress when they reached the wide-street town of Mesa at midday.

JD frowned at the design. “Why, these streets are wide enough to turn a wagon around anywhere.”

“The Mormons designed it that way,” Jesus said as they rode on through.

 

 

That night, they stayed in the small village of Chandler where the stage changed teams. Spitting all over, a tobacco-chewing man let them stable their horses and store their panniers. After another poor meal in a café, they slept the night in the stable's haystack.

In the morning, a Mexican woman street vendor made them tasty burritos before they rode on.

They stopped in Casa Grande and looked at the adobe ruins of an ancient civilization.

“What happened here?” Chet asked Jesus.

“It may have been a drought caused them to go back south. No one knows.”

“Like the big cactus, those ruins aren't talking,” Chet said.

“Maybe it was so bad they didn't want to,” JD added, sounding bored.

Chet shook his head and they rode on, stopping only for meals and sleep.

 

 

Two days later, they reached the walled city of Tucson. A dead hog, half rotten and feasted on by bold vultures, lay in the street at the curb. The birds barely hopped around at their passage. A block later, a dead burro with his eye sockets empty was prone on the side of the street.

“Do they bury dead people here?” JD asked.

Chet pointed out a file of Sunday dressed people and a priest coming down the street. Several men carried a coffin. The riders halted, removed their hats, and let them to pass.

“I guess you better belong to the church or you will be feed for the buzzards,” JD said as they moved out again.

“This is the town that competes with Preskitt for the capitol every time the state legislature meets,” Chet said.

“Who in hell's name would vote for being down here?” JD frowned.

“Jesus, doesn't a powerful ring run the business down here?” Chet asked.

The young man lowered his voice. “Oh,
sí
. A strong secret organization runs the services to the army and Indian reservations. So they make sure the large number of soldiers stay here and protect them from the Apaches.”

JD looked around with another frown. “I damn sure see why the command for the Army is up there at Preskitt and I don't blame them.”

Jesus took them to a relative who owned a small farm on the Santa Cruz. Ronaldo Vargas was a man in his thirties. His small irrigated farm had alfalfa, a milk cow, and several acres of corn that was made in the shuck. His wife, a smiling woman named Rio, welcomed them to get down and she would cook them some food.

Road weary, they dropped off their saddles and undid the girths. Vargas talked to his kinsman and told them to put the animals in a pen and the panniers inside the tack room so the dogs didn't get into them. The horses soon rolled in the pen's dust, grunting and appreciating their escape from saddles and packs. Then they rose and shook off dust like a whirlwind.

The Vargas's young children took pieces of hard candy from Chet and thanked him politely.

Rio sat them at her long table and served them flour tortillas, fried beef strips, sweet peppers, onions and spicy salsa, and brown beans.

“Best damn food we've had all this trip.” JD shook his head, looking amazed between bites. “Ronaldo your wife is a wonderful cook.”

The other two agreed. Rio beamed, and they ate their fill of her rich food.

“What brings you hombres to Tucson?”

Chet spoke up. “A secret business to look for a woman's daughter who was in Tombstone and disappeared awhile ago.”

The man frowned hard at them. “You have no idea where she went?”

“None. Her mother wrote Marshal White down there and he found out nothing.”

“What is the daughter's name?”

“Bonnie Allen. If you can find out anything do not expose us,” Chet warned, “but please tell us all you know. I can pay you a reward.”

Vargas nodded. “I will check around Tucson. If I find out anything, how will I contact you?”

“Send a letter to me, Chet Byrnes, General delivery, Tombstone. I'll check the post office daily or so.”

“Rio, get him an envelope and he can put that address on one,” Vargas requested.

“Sure,” Chet agreed between bites of food.

Taking the envelope from her, he used her pencil to address the envelope, handed it back, and thanked her. “Bonnie has red hair. I have a picture.” He dug it out of his vest.

The man and his wife examined it and then nodded. “She is a very pretty lady,” Rio said.

“Yes. Her mother is a good friend and we want to find her.”

“Oh, yes, I would, too, if I knew anything about her.”

“We will ride on this morning. If I can pay you—”

“No senor. Jesus is our favorite cousin. We are so glad to see him and learn about his life and meet you two as well,” Vargas insisted.

“This is a nice farm. I wonder how two young people like you could afford it.”

“This was Rio's grandfather's farm. We worked very hard for him for seven years and when he died, he left this farm to us because he knew we could make good, farming it.”

Chet nodded. “I understand that. My grandfather left me our ranch in Texas. But we had to leave because of a feud. My brother was murdered in Kansas, taking cattle to market for the ranch.”

“It must have been hard to leave your home. If I lost this place, I know I would cry. I am so glad to meet you, señor.” Vargas frowned. “You said this woman who lost the girl is a friend of yours?”

“She helped me find a ranch in Arizona Territory for my family and she found most of my help.”

Vargas shook his head, confused by the search business. “Where will you look for her?”

“Under every rock we can turn over.”

Vargas laughed. “Lots of rocks in Tombstone.”

“No. Everyone leaves a trail, even a thin one. There is a trail. We must find hers.”

“I bet you do that.”

“That is why we came here.”

“You are a busy man. Why would you do this?”

“I owe her mother,” Chet answered. “I know the girl may already be in a shallow grave, but her mother needs to know if that's the case, too.”

“I believe you will solve this mystery about her disappearance.”

“See, you are more confident than I am.” He clapped Vargas on the shoulder. “Pray for us to find her—alive.”

“We will, señor. We will.”

 

 

The next day, the three travelers left early and headed for Benson—another forty-mile hitch in their travels across the hard desert.

When they rode into the town on the San Pedro River about sundown, Chet noticed several
putas
in scanty clothing standing by the doors of the narrow adobe cribs. As the men passed, the women offered their services loudly.

Coming to Wheeler Livery Stable, the men put up their horses and planned to sleep in the bunk-room. When Chet and Jesus headed out for supper, JD parted their company, telling them he'd see them later.

Chet recalled the ladies of the night they'd seen earlier. He had no interest and neither did Jesus so they went on without JD to a café the stable man said served decent food.

After dinner, Chet and Jesus returned to the bunkhouse and turned in.

Chet didn't hear JD came in, but he was asleep in the hay the next morning. Chet woke up the two young men. “Better get some breakfast. That gal at the café said she'd have food ready at daybreak.”

The men grumbled a bit, then rose and made their way to the stable.

“Damn I'm sore. Are you two?” Chet asked them, busy slapping on saddles and packs.

“Just my back,” JD said, holding his hips and drawing a laugh from Chet and Jesus.

“You can't complain about that,” Chet said. “All this riding is the real work.”

They led their horses to the café and hitched them out front. The lamps were on when they went inside. Each one took off this hat for the woman in her thirties named Lizzy. She sat them down at a large table in the back and took their orders.

The town law sauntered in. He strolled to the back and told them good morning. Chet told him to take a seat and introduced his men and himself to the man.

“Earl's my name. Earl Stover. I'm the law here and want to welcome you three to Benson. You chose a good place to eat breakfast. Lizzy is a great woman and if she ever shuts down, I'd find a new town to be the marshal in. Nice to meet 'cha.” He nodded to each one and took his place at the table.

“You fellers look prepared to do some serious traveling.”

“We're looking over the country,” Chet said.

“Lots to see around here. Down the road is Tombstone. Hell on wheels, I call it. Here, things are pretty quiet. It's not a bad place to settle down and make a home.”

“Well, we'll be looking. Thanks.”

“Just wanted you to know that.”

“You've been the law here for a long time?” Chet asked to make conversation.

“Three years. Pretty quiet. Oh, I get a few drunks and some petty stealing of chickens, but most times it's quiet. I did some boomtowns back a few years ago in Colorado. Got enough of that in a big hurry.”

“I bet you did.”

“Lizzy,” Stover called to the woman. “Bring me some hot sauce with my eggs.”

“I will. I'm fixing the usual for you.”

“Good girl. Thanks. That's why I'm here. She sure takes good care of me.”

Chet nodded. Something about the man struck him. He looked capable of exploding if things stressed him. Chet figured the marshal could get angry fast if things didn't go his way.

When they finished eating, Chet and the others said good-bye to the marshal, then JD and Jesus left the café. Chet paid the woman, giving her a tip that she thanked him for.

“Did he think we were outlaws?” JD asked, looking back at the diner before he mounted up

“I don't know. He is the law here. Maybe checking us out.” In the saddle, Chet smiled at Jesus. “You think we look like outlaws?”

“No. But he was a tough acting man. I was glad to get out of there, but her food was good.”

“It was fine food. Let's find Tombstone, guys.”

“I'm ready,” JD said, and they swung out from the livery and trailed down the empty street.

Chet saw Stover standing behind the glass window of the café, giving them what he called the hard eye. They'd done nothing in his town but sleep and eat. JD had no doubt sampled some local dove the night before, but that wasn't law breaking. Perhaps the man was overprotective. Maybe it was nothing.

They rode through St. David an hour or so later. A Mormon town with small acreage farms, the LDS Church was clustered in the middle. The plots were alfalfa, corn, beans, and gardens. The irrigation was extensive. Water from the river and some artesian wells poured out at the wellhead into the ditches.

“That kind of a well would be nice up our way,” Chet said, impressed by the fact that the liquid came free from the ground to the top of the well's large faucet that could be shut off until one needed it again.

“These people are neat farmers, too,” JD added. He stood up in the stirrups and looked around. “Have these folks got several wives that live here?”

“I don't know. They say some of them do.” Chet saw no signs of polygamy but he didn't doubt there could be some.

“There are Mormons with more than one wife up by us,” Jesus said.

“I never knew that.” JD frowned. “You know of any, Chet?”

“A woman who lives beyond the western boundary of the Quarter Circle Z has a ranch there. She runs some cows for her husband and grows most of her own food.” He'd sent Hampt there to check on her and learn if there were any rustlers working the area. Hampt had come back smiling, but Chet had never asked him anything about it.

“I'll be damned. Was she good looking?” JD asked.

“She's not ugly. Heck and I met her when I was trailing Ryan after he shot my good horse.”

“She ever get lonely?”

“Hell, JD, I don't know. She sure don't see many faces in a year's time.”

“I just wondered. I'll be damned.”

Chet frowned. “You planning on becoming a Mormon?”

“No. What would a man do with five wives?”

“Feed them, I guess.”

“Well, I didn't see any back there, but you find one, make sure you show her to me.”

Chet laughed. “I will.”

A few hours later, they rode up Boot Hill to look at the entire town of Tombstone spread across a mesa at the foot of some bare hills. The sounds of large mine machinery running full steam filled the air with a whine that one heard in industrial places. Clanging and banging, steam whistles, and sharp peeps. Huge ore wagons piled high with the loads pulled by six draft mules headed for a stamper mill south of town. Freight wagons with many yokes of oxen laying down, resting, and chewing their cuds, clogged the street. The railroad had not arrived in Arizona yet so there were no trains or tracks, but it would some day pass through Benson, thirty miles north. Big plans had already been made for a sidetrack to the queen city and a railroad bed was already under construction outside of town headed that way.