Lawless Trail (12 page)

“That doesn't mean he can't stop long enough to send a couple of bullets back our way,” Hardaway said.

Staring out at the trail, the Ranger realized the rider had slipped away so easily that he'd been able to take his time, make certain he left no dust looming in the air.

The man was good,
he told himself. He had to give him that.

“No, he's gone on,” Sam said. “He's cleared their back trail for them. His shots let them know he's finished back here. He's gone on to make sure the trail into Mexico holds no surprises for them.”

Hardaway eyed him closely.

“Yeah?” he said. “What if you're wrong? What if he does drop down and fix his sights back in our direction?”

“Then I expect we'll both be dead and gone and won't have to worry about it,” the Ranger said. He stepped forward, leading the barb off the hard stone surface onto the dirt trail.

“I find that's one hell of an attitude,” Hardaway said, leading his horse alongside him. “I don't like knowing odds are that I'm walking into a gun's sights.”

“Neither do I,” the Ranger said. “But the job doesn't stop because the odds get narrow.” He gave the thin trace of a smile. “It just gets more interesting.”

Carter Claypool pushed himself up from the stream on his palms and swung his wet hair back and forth. On his downstream side only three feet away, his big dun drew water, its hooves six inches deep in the stream, as if to cool them after the long midmorning ride. Giving the dun time to replenish itself, Claypool picked up his canteen from the water, scooted back from the edge of the stream and leaned against a rock stuck in the gravelly cutbank.

His face had begun healing from the beating the detective had given him, but it was going to be a while before the swelling was gone and the purple mask had faded from around his eyes. Other than that and a few closing cuts, a pained jaw and some ribs that dealt him a shooting pain that ached when he moved a certain way, he was mending right along.

Soon be good as new,
he told himself, running a hand along his lumpy, beard-stubbled jawline. He gave himself a crooked grin. “Just
capital
!” he said aloud, noting the dun's ears twitch at the sound of his voice.

He chuffed a little to himself, capping the canteen, and relaxed back against the rock in reflection. The fact that he hadn't killed Artimus Folliard when he had the chance still nagged at him, especially now that blood had been spilled in Maley and killing was in the game. It wasn't like him to forgo vengeance. He had every right to kill the man and he should have. Yet he hadn't,
damn it!

All right, don't start,
he told himself. When the next opportunity came along, he'd kill Folliard and be done with it—all would be well with the world.

He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, pleased with how smoothly things were going now that they'd gotten Ty Traybo cared for and gotten out of Maley before daylight. Like clockwork.
Smoother than a Cincinnati timepiece.

He smiled to himself and caught himself drifting off, until the sound of the dun grumbling under its breath caused him to open his eyes with a start. In front of him stood two Mexicans, one holding the dun's dripping reins. The other man held a cocked rifle one-handed, pointed at his chest.

“Ah,
señor
, did we wake you?” the one with the pointed rifle said in a sympathetic voice. He jerked his head toward the other man. “This one is so noisy. Always I tell him, ‘You can be
noisy
, or you can be a good sneak thief.'” He gave a wide grin and wagged his finger. “But you cannot be both, no, no. Eh, amigo?”

“Sounds right,” Claypool said calmly, having frozen in place with his right hand lying on the ground at his side, close enough to his short-barreled Colt to make a play for it. He considered it, asking himself what the sound of his gunfire would signal to the Traybos. He held himself in check.

“I have money,” he said.

“Oh, do you?” the rifleman said, feigning pleasantry. “You also have a bloody shirt,” he added with a curious expression.

Claypool ignored the short remark. He started to raise his left hand toward his buttoned shirt pocket. “I'm always willing to pay my way through.”

The Mexican's hand tightened on the rifle; Claypool's left hand froze at his pocket button.

“Take your hand down, meester, or I will blow your head off,” he said, his mask of cordiality gone. “We will take your money when the time comes and you will have no say about it.”

So that's how it is.
Claypool saw no way to keep from firing the Colt.

“First you tell us what the gunfire was about,” the Mexican insisted.

“How would I know?” said Claypool, getting an attitude now that he knew the two had no intention of letting him leave here alive. “I heard it myself.” He gave a shrug.

“I get the feeling you know,” said the rifleman, eyeing Claypool's bloody shoulder. “Miguel, do you get the feeling he knows?”

Holding the reins to the dun, the other Mexican stood gripping a big battered French revolver down his thigh.

“
Sí
, I get a feeling he does,” he said.

“Gunfire could mean anything. What do you care?” Claypool asked, relaxed but ready to make a move at just the right time.

“What
do we
—?” The Mexican halted, taken aback. He shook his head and continued. “Let me 'splain to you, gringo. You would never guess it, but Miguel and I are
banditos
, eh?” He stepped closer. Claypool stared up at him.

Perfect.

“Because we are
banditos,
it is 'portant to us what we hear along this trail. On this lawless trail, we must be well informed—be prepared to meet
federales,
gringo lawmen, long riders, all that sort of thing.” He shook his head as if in regret.

“Lawless trail, huh?” Claypool looked back and forth. The man liked to talk, so he'd keep him talking.

“
Sí
, it is what my people call it. Because it is a
lawless trail
, filled with
lawless men
,” the Mexican said. “Men like
us
 . . . men like you perhaps?” His rifle barrel sagged, only slightly, but enough for Claypool to take note. “It is a terrible thing, this way that we must live.” He shrugged in resignation. “But what can we do?” he sighed. “Now tell us about the shooting so we can kill you and take your—”

His words stopped short beneath the blast of Claypool's short-barreled Colt; the bullet sliced upward in a streak of blue-orange fire, ripped through his chest and left a red streak of blood and matter jetting upward in the air behind him.

Before his accomplice hit the ground, the other Mexican swung the big French pistol up and fired, the gun giving off the strange tinny sound of cheap metal. But even as his bullet struck the rock beside Claypool's shoulder, Claypool's Colt blazed again. The bullet cut through the Mexican's chest and grazed Claypool's dun along its rump.

“Oh no, Charlie Smith!” Claypool shouted as he leaped to his feet.

The dun screamed in pain and jerked its reins free from the second Mexican's hand. The Mexican staggered wildly, backward into the stream before falling with one large and final splash.

Claypool, his short Colt smoking in his hand, made a wild grab for his dun's reins as the spooked horse spun in a wild full circle and bolted away. The Mexicans' horses jerked their reins free from a nearby tangle of scrub juniper where the men had rein-hitched them and fell in with the fleeing dun.

“This is all I need,” Claypool said sourly. He gazed out to where the second Mexican's body had bobbed away fifteen yards downstream and draped itself over a rock. In the ringing silence, Claypool looked off through the hilltops, following the direction the gunshots' echo had taken.

There goes the Cincinnati timepiece,
he told himself, seeing a flock of birds rise from a stand of pine on a distant hillside and bat away across the white sunny sky. Turning, he ejected the two spent rounds from his Colt. Sighing, he replaced them with fresh rounds from his gun belt and started walking through the dust stirred up by the horses' pounding hooves.

•   •   •

Rubens walked up to Wes Traybo, who stood gazing back along the main trail they'd ridden across the border. They had made a camp on a high, sloping hillside in the shelter of pine and bald grounded boulder. Rubens arrived at Wes' side and looked out across the hills with him, sharing the leader's concern for the whereabouts of Carter Claypool since they'd heard the distant pistol fire.

“He'll show, Wes,” said Rubens. “He always does.”

Wes cut him a glance, then looked back out in the direction the gunshots had come from, as if some clue would soon reveal itself from that spot.

“I hope so,” Wes replied. “We'll give him a while longer. If he hasn't shown, I'm sending the rest of you forward and riding back to see why.”

Rubens squinted and scratched his whiskered chin.

“Not to be contrary, Wes,” he said. “But ain't the whole idea of having a man like Claypool out there watching our trail, is to allow us to get away while he takes on whatever's coming?”

Wes Traybo turned and looked him up and down.

“I suppose you didn't hear me, did you?” he said, half joking, yet with a look that invited no questions on the matter.

“Yeah, I heard you just fine,” said Rubens, seeing Wes turn away and look back out along the winding trail. “I'll have the doc and the woman get Ty up and ready to ride. I'll go ahead and saddle your horse and bring it to you—I figure you're going back.”

“Obliged,” said Wes. “And, Baylor?” he said as Rubens turned to walk away.

“Yeah?” said Rubens, stopping, looking back at him.

“Things didn't go well for us this time,” Wes said quietly, not facing him.

“I sort of noticed that,” Rubens said wryly. “But we still got out with the money.”

“What I'm saying is,” Wes went on, “if you and Bugs want to ride away when I get back, you'll both get your share and nobody'll say anything.”

“Damn these ears of mine,” Rubens said. “A minute ago I heard you just fine . . . now I can't make out a word you're saying.”

Wes Traybo studied the back trail. He nodded slowly.

“Good man,” he said under his breath, even though Rubens had already turned and walked away.

Moments later, Wes heard his horse clopping toward him at a walk across the hard ground. But when he turned, instead of seeing Rubens leading the animal, he saw Rosetta smile at him and hold out the reins.

“Where's Rubens?” he asked, staring past the woman toward the campsite where Rubens stood staring and gave an uncertain shrug.

“Don't be angry with him,
por favor
,” she said, seeing an irritated look on his face. “I asked him to let me bring your horse to you. I hope that was all right?”

Wes let out a breath and eased his expression.

“It is
now
,” he said.

“Your brother says he is well enough to ride on his own now,” she said. “I asked the
médico
—I mean, the doctor,” she corrected. “He said it is not so. I come to ask you if I have done something wrong that makes your brother not want me to take care of him?”

Wes saw hurt in her eyes as he took the reins to his horse.

“No, Rosetta, you've done nothing wrong,” he said. “My brother is a proud man. He wants everybody to know he can take care of himself.” As he spoke he instinctively looked his horse over before mounting it and putting it on the trail. “I'll talk to him some when I get back.” He looked her up and down. “Meanwhile, I'm sure you can charm him enough to keep him in line.”

“In line?” she asked, not familiar with the term.

“Keep him
smiling
,”
he said, stepping up, swinging his leg over the saddle.

“Ah,
sí
, of course,” she said, sounding reassured.

He settled into his saddle and looked at her, seeing she had more on her mind.

“We're in Mexico now,” he said, anticipating her thoughts about leaving. “But I'd like to get closer to where we're going before you take off.”

“It's all right,” she said. “I still have a long ride. It can take me weeks—perhaps months—to get home. It is better I travel with someone as long as I can.” She paused and then added, “I am a long way from home.”

“What part of Mexico are you from?” Wes asked.

“I am not from Mexico. I am from Guatemala. I live in Tera Paz, a small village near the Mexican border. That is where the slavers stole me.”

“
Guatemala . . .
woman, you sure
are
a long way from home,” Wes said. He studied her face. “You speak good English to be from so far away.”

“I learn English from the French—from the
religieuses
.” Seeing the look on Wes' face, she said, “From the
monjas
.”

“The
nuns
,” Wes said, understanding now that she'd switched from French to Spanish. He nodded. “You learned your good English from the French. That makes sense, I reckon.”

“Sí.”
She smiled. “So I will ride with you as far as I can, to keep from riding alone. . . . Is all right?”

“Yes, is all right,” Wes said, backing his horse a step to turn it to the trail. “Now, if there's nothing else anybody needs to talk about, I'll go find my scout and bring him back.”

•   •   •

The Ranger and Hardaway had heard the sound of gunfire and ridden on until they found two worn-out horses standing in the speckled shade of an ironwood tree clinging to the side of a shallow cutbank lining a dry creek bed. One horse's saddle hung below its belly. The other still had part of the juniper bush tangled in its trailing reins.

“Unless these cayuses left home searching for a better life in America, I'd say somebody's in bad trouble,” Hardaway said, looking all around as he and the Ranger stopped and stepped down from their saddles. “This is from the gunshots, you suppose?”