Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter (22 page)

“You think you can find them?”

“I can find them. However long it takes, however far I have to ride.”

Crossing from Arizona into Mexico was like crossing the border between Arizona and New Mexico Territory. If there hadn't been a marker beside the trail, burned into a weathered slab of wood, Luke wouldn't have been able to tell that he had passed from one country into the other.

The brushy, semiarid terrain was the same almost as far as the eye could see. Several small ranges of hills broke it up in the distance.

Luke was about a hundred miles southwest of Moss City, where he had said good-bye to Hobie and Jessica several days earlier. Jessica had hugged him and told him to be sure and stop at her brother's ranch to see them if he ever got to that part of California. Luke had promised that he would, but didn't really expect to keep that promise. He had ridden alone for too long to break the habit.

He had used his time in Moss City to find out whatever he could about the mysterious Don del Oro, mentioning the name in every saloon and cantina in town. For a while, it seemed like he was going to be frustrated in his efforts, but one night he had bought a beer for an old desert rat with a scruffy beard and a battered hat with a turned-up brim and had been rewarded.

As he rode farther into Mexico, Luke remembered the conversation.

 

 

 

 

Thinking of the Rurales pulled Luke from his memories. After meeting up with Captain Almanzar and his men at La Farva, he had his own opinion of the Rurales, and it wasn't a favorable one. He hadn't brought that up in his conversation with the old prospector, though.

He shifted in his saddle and continued his ride, mulling over what he had learned about Don del Oro.

 

 

 

 

The old-timer hadn't been able to give Luke exact directions to the abandoned mine, but he'd told him enough to get to the Diablitos. They loomed ahead of him, a rugged line of gray peaks.

As usual, the mountains were farther away than they appeared. By the time Luke made camp that night, he didn't seem any closer to them than he had been when he first sighted them. He knew from experience that he had to just keep going until he reached his destination.

He was aware that in Mexico he had less legal standing than he did in the States. Because of that, he made sure his fire was small, using it only to boil coffee, and he doused the flames with sand, putting it out before night had fallen completely. His supper consisted of jerky and some hard biscuits he had bought in a tiny settlement not far north of the border.

After circling his lasso around his bedroll to keep snakes out, he crawled into his blankets and slept. His horse was picketed nearby and would let him know if anybody or anything came around. The animal was a better sentry than a lot of humans Luke knew.

In the morning, Luke pushed on toward the Little Devils. By midday, the mountains were starting to look somewhat closer. He lost sight of them, however, when he entered an area of ridges and gullies that formed a forbidding badlands. There was no telling how far the breaks stretched to either side, so he had no choice except to cross them.

Luke had been following a serpentine path through the rugged terrain for about an hour when he spotted a little plume of dirt and pebbles sliding down a steep slope ahead of him and to the left. That served as a warning that something had just moved up there above him. He reined in, jerked his head back to look up the slope, and reached across his body with his right hand for the Remington.

A shot rang out, its echo bouncing around crazily from the multitude of rock walls all around him. Dust flew as the bullet chipped stone to his right. A voice called out in Spanish, ordering him not to move.

The same man's voice continued in English, “Take your hand away from your gun, señor. I would hate to have to tell my men to shoot you.”

Luke wasn't convinced the fella would hate it all that much. He lifted his hand away from the Remington's walnut grips and raised it shoulder high while he held the reins in his other hand. His eyes scanned the slopes. At first, he didn't see anything, but then he picked out several rifle barrels protruding menacingly from behind rocks.

“You have the advantage of me, my friends,” he called. “I'm not looking for trouble, though.”

“You are an American,” the unseen speaker said. He made it sound like an accusation.

“That's true,” Luke admitted.

“What are you doing in my country?”

“Looking for two more Americans.” As an Apache, Dog Eater might not take kindly to being called an American, but since he'd been traveling with Gunner Kelly, Luke thought it was all right to lump the two of them together.

“Stay where you are,” the man told him.

“All right,” Luke agreed. He heard more rocks rattling as somebody shifted around.

Suddenly, a gray, steeple-crowned sombrero came into view above one of the boulders that littered the slope to his left. Luke recognized it instantly. The sombrero was the sort of headgear worn by the Rurales.

This could be bad,
he thought grimly. If he had run into a Rurale patrol, there was every possibility they would try to kill him and steal his horse and all his other belongings.

The man who came out from behind the boulder and slid down to the trail wore the gray trousers and short jacket of the Rurales. He was young and clean-shaven. Lines etched around his eyes and mouth showed that he wasn't quite as innocent as he first appeared. “I am Lieutenant Diego Sanchez,” he announced.

“Luke Jensen. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant. At least . . . I hope I am.”

“You are alone?”

“I suspect that you've been watching me for a while and you know I am.”

Sanchez shrugged. “At least you did not lie. You are more than a day's ride from the border, Señor Jensen. What brings you to Mexico?”

“I'm looking for someone.”

“Friends of yours?”

“Acquaintances.” Luke had traded shots with Kelly and Dog Eater. That was enough reason to say they were acquainted, he supposed.

“What makes you think they are here?”

“I was told they were bound for the Diablitos.” That was stretching the truth, but it made sense. The outlaws had mentioned the name of an abandoned mine in the Little Devils, and a place like that would make a good hideout.

“Have you seen any other Rurales?”

The sharply-voiced question took Luke by surprise. He was about to say that the only other Rurales he had seen had been across the border in New Mexico Territory, at the settlement called La Farva, but some instinct made him stop.

He shook his head. “You and your men are the only ones I've run into since I crossed the border.”

That statement was true, when you came right down to it.

“You are fortunate,” Sanchez said. “The men we seek are criminals. They deserted their post and have become
renegados
. They would have killed you without a second thought and taken everything you own.”

Luke thought it probably wouldn't be a good idea to mention that the same idea had crossed his mind about the lieutenant and his men. He said, “So you're looking for some of your own, eh?”

Sanchez turned his head and spat eloquently on the ground. “Not my own,” he said with a note of outrage in his voice. “They are traitors! They have turned their backs on their duty. Their captain, a man named Almanzar, is nothing more than scum.”

Having had the dubious pleasure of meeting the man, Luke couldn't disagree. While Lieutenant Sanchez, on the other hand, seemed to be that rarest of creatures: an honest Rurale. He appeared to be genuinely offended by Almanzar's lawlessness.

“I appreciate the warning, Lieutenant. I'll certainly keep my eyes peeled for those men and do my best to avoid them.”

“You should turn around and return to the United States, Señor Jensen. The Diablitos are not safe for anyone, especially a gringo.”

“It's important that I find those men,” Luke said. “They have something that belongs to me.”

Five grand, to be precise, but he wasn't going to mention
that
to Sanchez, either. Whether the lieutenant was honest or not, there was no point in tempting him.

“I could order you to return to your country,” Sanchez said sternly. “I could take you into custody.”

“You have a job of your own to do,” Luke pointed out. “You don't need to be burdened with a prisoner. And even if I turned around and started north, you wouldn't know whether I kept going or doubled back.”

Sanchez's dark eyes narrowed. “I could just have you shot.”

“For no good reason? I don't think you'd do that, Lieutenant.” Luke knew he was gambling his life on the judgment he had made about Sanchez's character.

After a few seconds, Sanchez sighed and said, “No, I would not. Consider yourself warned, Señor Jensen, and if you ride on, it will be at your own risk.”

“It usually is,” Luke said dryly.

“If I ever find out that you lied to me about the men I seek, I will find you and make you regret it.”

That seemed like a pretty empty threat to Luke, but he nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

Sanchez stood aside and motioned for Luke to go ahead.

As Luke nudged his horse into motion and rode past the lieutenant, he was acutely aware that an unknown number of men were still staring at him over the barrels of their rifles. All he could do was hope they would follow their officer's orders and allow him to pass.

No shots rang out as he followed the trail on through the badlands and emerged from them half an hour later to enter a wide stretch of flats that ran all the way to the base of the mountains. Not until then did he heave a sigh of relief.

As he rode on toward the Little Devils, he thought about the encounter with the Rurale patrol. They were a long way from La Farva, over in New Mexico Territory, which was the last place Almanzar and the giant Lopez had been seen.

At least, as far as Luke knew that was the last place the two surviving renegade Rurales had been. Maybe Almanzar and Lopez had crossed back over the border and headed for the Diablitos, thinking they would find sanctuary there. They could have been spotted somewhere along the way and reported to Lieutenant Sanchez. That made sense, Luke decided.