Lookout Hill (9781101606735) (4 page)

The Ranger had heard the shots in the distance on the trail ahead of him, but he kept Black Pot and the outlaw’s tired horse at the same pace rather than pushing them any harder on the high, rocky terrain. A half hour had passed before he stopped both horses and looked down from the cover of pines onto the gravelly stream bank. Winchester rifle in hand, he nudged Black Pot forward, leading the outlaw’s abandoned horse by its reins beside him.

“Keep it easy,” he murmured to the side horse, drawing the reins taut to keep it from hurrying ahead to the water. He stopped a few feet short of some disturbed gravel. Stepping down from the saddle, he led the animals closer and recognized an assortment of foot- and hoofprints. He gave slack on the horses’ reins and allowed them to step into the shallow water and drink while he examined the stream bank.

A donkey, a goat,
he said to himself, his gloved fingertips touching the prints lightly. Then he detected a small human footprint and a larger print, both made
by the flat imprint of a sandal. A child and a grown-up, he deduced—both Mexican judging by the flat rectangular sole of the sandal. He followed the prints back and forth with his eyes, trying to decipher what had taken place here. He stopped suddenly when he came upon a watery streak of blood and the imprint of a man lying prone in the pliable loam. He saw the imprint of one lathed riding boot, its heel dug into the bank, the other lying on its side.

There’s the gunshots….

Sam straightened to a stand and followed the prints with his eyes as the collection of unseen entities, both beast and human, appeared to have collected themselves on the stream bank and dissipated onto the hillside. He let the reins to the drinking horses fall from his hand and followed the prints a few feet onto the harder, rocky shelf leading away from the stream bank.

He stooped again when he found a half circle of sun-dried blood lining the single left boot heel.
Leaking blood,
he told himself. A few feet away he saw another half circle, this one lighter, only a trace. His eyes followed a single set of hoofprints moving back onto the trail, headed north into higher country. Then he looked back at the ground beneath his feet.

Someone had been shot here and someone had helped them up into the woods. But who? One of the outlaws, or some hapless traveler who had come upon them? A body would most naturally be lying somewhere in the wake of men like Siebert and Bellibar. He tried to work out the scenario at the stream bank more
clearly in his mind. But before he could complete his thoughts on the matter, he heard the sound of several rifles cocking inside the surrounding pines.

On first instinct he would have flung himself to the ground and brought the Winchester up into play. But seeing the ragged, mismatched uniforms of
rurales
encircling him as they stepped into sight on the hillside, he froze and stood with his hand in place on his rifle stock. He reminded himself that if these men had wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have heard their rifles cock—he would only have heard the blast of fire, then nothing else. He let out a tense breath and waited, seeing two mounted men step their horses into sight from behind the cover of a sunken boulder.

“You will lay down your rifle,
lawman
,” a tense-looking man with a thick, drooping mustache demanded.

Good, they had recognized the badge on his chest, Sam thought. Sometimes that helped; other times it didn’t. This time it appeared to have kept the bullets from flying long enough for him to explain himself. He slowly placed the Winchester on the ground at his feet and straightened up. Now would they ask him to lay down his sidearm?

No, he decided, hearing the thin man call out to him.

“Come forward with your hands raised, lawman,” he demanded.

Sam held his hands chest high. He walked forward and stopped a few feet in front of the two mounted
rurales
.

“What brings you to our beautiful country?” the
thin Mexican asked in a mock welcoming tone, as if this were the first American lawman he’d ever encountered in the Mexican badlands.

“I’m Arizona Ranger Samuel Burrack, here in pursuit of wanted men, under the Matamoros Agreement, an agreement between our two governments,” Sam said, as if reciting the words from some official document.

“We
know
about the Matamoros Agreement,” said the other
rurale
, sounding offended. This one’s face wore a fresh, clean shave beneath the thin, straight line of a mustache. A powerfully built man, clearly the leader, Sam told himself, noting polished black boots and a newer-looking uniform. “The agreement says that you must be prepared to explain to any
funcionario
such as I who you are searching for and why.”

“I understand,” said Sam. “I’m tracking two men. Their names are Bellibar and Siebert. They’re wanted for murder and robbery. I have their posters inside my shirt.” He made a slight gesture of his hand toward the bib of his shirt.

“Do not reach for anything, or I will be forced to shoot you dead,” the thin
rurale
warned him.

Sam stopped. “I’ve identified myself. I’ve given you the men’s names. I’m offering a look at their faces.”

The clean-shaven
rurale
gave a flat grin and waved the notion aside.

“If I want to see ugly gringos,” he said. “I have three cousins I visit in Ciudad El Paso.” He chuckled at his obscure joke. The thin
rurale
joined in, the two nodding at each other as they laughed.

Sam only stared. They didn’t know where to take this now that he’d presented himself with respect, knew the rules of the Matamoros Agreement and showed a willingness to cooperate. There was a slight opportunity for him here. He decided to take it while they both wondered what to do next.

“Am I being held,
Capitán
…?” he asked the clean-shaven man, eyeing first the silver-braided epaulets on the shoulders of his officer’s tunic, then staring straight into his black eyes.

The Ranger’s look and demeanor summoned a no-nonsense response from the
rurale
officer.

“
Capitán
Fernando Goochero,” the man said, straightening in his saddle, his laughter suddenly silenced. “This is my
segundo
, Sergeant Lopez.” He paused for a second as if pondering the Ranger’s question, then said, “No, you are not being
held.
” To Sergeant Lopez he said quietly, “Have the men stand down.”

Lopez gave a nod and a hand gesture to the half circle of pointed guns. The guns slumped. He turned to the captain with a proud expression.

“You may lower your hands now, lawman,” said the captain.

“It’s Ranger,
Capitán
,” Sam corrected him, “Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack.” He lowered his hands but kept them clear of his holstered Colt.

The captain ignored his correction.

“Take your rifle and go, lawman,” he said to the Ranger. “But be mindful that we are here. We are searching my province for rebels who have banded together to overthrow our emperor and his regime. But we also
hunt outlaws when their paths cross ours. Unlike you
americano
lawmen, who think you are born with God’s blessing to travel wherever you see fit, in my country, I keep my men where we belong, eh, Sergeant Lopez?”

“
Sí, Capitán,
” said the skinny sergeant, staring coldly at the Ranger. “The difference is, we catch and kill the men we are looking for. We do not ride around in circles—”

“We wield the law as
we
see fit,” said the captain, cutting his sergeant off. He raised a finger for emphasis. “When we come upon the kind of men you are hunting, we will execute them on the spot. This is how we deal with both gringo outlaws and
Mexicano
rebels here in my part of the province.” He eyed Sam closely. “How do you treat
Mexicano
rebels and traitors?”

“Section four of the Matamoros Agreement makes it clear I’m to have no part in any political struggles, Captain,” Sam said without hesitation.

“I am impressed, lawman,” said the captain. He gave a tight smile. “I see you have actually
read
the agreement. Gringos have so little regard for my nation’s laws they do not bother to learn them. Instead they take the word of some fool who also holds our law in disregard. Mexican
law
becomes no more than
rumor
to them.”

Sam stared back and forth between the two.

“I know your nation’s laws and I follow them to the best of my ability,” he replied.

“Do you hear him, Sergeant Lopez?” The captain looked at the sergeant and shook his head slightly. “He follows our laws to the
best
of his
abilities.
”

“
Sí
, I hear him,
Capitán
,” the sergeant said in disgust.
“They cannot help themselves, these gringos. They believe the world belongs to them. They do with it as they see fit.”

The captain looked back down at Sam.

“To the best of your abilities, eh?” he said.

“That’s all I’ve got for you, Captain Goochero,” he said. His gun hand relaxed and moved nearer to his holstered gun butt. “That’s all I’ve got for anybody.” He let the captain and the sergeant see that he’d have no more of it. He sensed time ticking, widening the gap between himself and his prey. He came here to do a job, not to be put upon.

The two stared at him, both realizing the unquestionable reasoning, whether they agreed with his words or not.

“Are we through?” Sam asked bluntly.

The captain didn’t reply. Instead he jerked his horse’s reins, turned the animal and rode toward the rest of the waiting
rurales
.

The sergeant glared down at the Ranger.

“Go your own way, lawman, but be careful that you stay out of ours,” he said in warning.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sergeant Lopez,” Sam said. He watched the thin sergeant jerk his horse around and ride off behind the captain. Only when the two had formed their men up and ridden out of sight did Sam pick up his rifle and gather Black Pot and the silver-gray dun. Rifle in hand, he led the horses up among the rocks, following the tracks of the goat, the donkey and the footprints left by flat-soled sandals—one set of prints belonging to a small child.

Cause for concern?
he asked himself. Yes, he believed it could be. A child thrown into the mix of things always demanded close attention. But he’d know more on the matter as the ascending path through the rocks revealed it to him. Looking down at the rocky ground beneath his feet, he saw the spot of blood and reasoned that it did not come from whoever wore the flat-soled sandals. That person’s gait moved along at a straight and steadily pace. The bleeding came from the person atop the donkey.

It helped to know that.

He walked on, leading the horses, weaving his way another ten yards through unearthed boulders until the hoofprints and footprints began to fade across a flat, widening rock shelf. He kept close watch on the hard surface at his feet, yet even so, near the edge of the rock shelf, all signs of the prints seemed to vanish into thin air.

To his left, a steep path sloped downward fifty yards, then flattened onto a sheer rock wall. They obviously didn’t go that way, unless they could fly, he reasoned. The ledge ended the same way on his right—a small path to nowhere. Whoever led this party didn’t want to be followed. In terrain like this, he could search for days and never come up with so much as a hoof mark. By the same token, a person wise enough to leave no trail was also wise enough to leave sign for someone to follow if they felt they needed help.

Sam turned and looked out along the trail leading north, away from the water’s edge—the single set of prints there. He had to either stay on that person while
the tracks were fresh or search around blindly in the rock lands and take a chance on both men getting away.

All right.

It made sense to go after the one easiest to follow at this point. But he considered the small, flat-soled sandal prints and let out a breath. The one headed north would have to wait. He was going after the ones headed deeper into the rock lands.

“I hope you’re leaving me something to go on,” he murmured out across the hill country beneath him. He swung up into his saddle and turned both horses along the edge of the cliff to his right, toward the downhill path.

Near dark, Sens Priscilla, the healing woman, kindled the fire pit in the rocky front yard of her home—a part cave, part pine and stone structure clinging to the side of El Punto de Diablo. As she stoked the fire and sank a small covered kettle of water to boil in a bed of glowing embers, she felt the tiny black eyes of her sparrows watching from their perch along a short hitch rail. The birds stepped nervously in place and tipped their paper-thin wings in anticipation.

“Don’t worry, little chippies,” she said softly, her face shadowed inside the hood of a faded black robe. “When have I ever left you to the mercy of the night?”

The birds chirped even livelier and stared back as if understanding her words.

“
Don’t tease us, Sens Priscilla,
” she said in a squeaky little voice. The birds chirped eagerly at the sound of her voice, recognizing the different tone.

Priscilla started to gather the sparrows into the warm, drooping sleeve of her robe for the night, but a sound from the pathway up the steep hillside stopped her. She froze for a moment and listened closely, as silent as death.

The scrape of an unshod hoof? Yes, so it is,
she answered herself.

She turned toward the path, spread her hands slightly and let the baggy sleeves fall down over them. She continued to stand statuelike, her eyes closed, the catch of sparrows huddled and perched in a tense silent line behind her.

She focused all her senses toward the slow approach of hooves moving softly across rock, whisking past dried brush. She divined danger there, yet it was not danger immediate. It was danger impending—a dark omen of danger to come if left unrestrained. With that thought, she instinctively felt for the slim dagger tucked away inside her robe.