Scalpers (20 page)

He walked outside the circle of firelight and threw the bottles off into the brush. The story of what happened here began to assemble itself in his mind.

“That slippery Texan and his pals caught you two off guard, but not me,” he said to the bloody bodies on the ground, making it up on the spot.
I was off relieving myself when some men slipped and took these two by surprise. I come running, but something hit me over the head—woke up, this is what I found. . . .
He rummaged through his saddlebags as he constructed the story, even reaching up and rubbing the imaginary knot on his head. Right now the story was full of holes, but he'd work on it along the trail.

He took out a lightweight Navy Colt and slipped
it into his holster. Picking up the saddle, he walked to the smoky dun, who still stood watching him.

He saddled his horse and rode away, leading a spare horse beside him. Behind him the low flames flickered eerily on the recent dead. The campfire lay shrouded in the silence of death. At length the two loosened horses wandered back in from their night's foraging and prowled about aimlessly until they finally stood sleeping in the silvery hour of dawn.

They awakened and pricked their ears at the faintest sound of the Ranger as he crept up a path leading behind the boulder. In his left hand Sam carried his Winchester rifle, pistol-style, cocked and ready. In his right hand he carried his Colt, hammer back, his thumb over it, ready to fire. Yet he sensed something was wrong as he stepped closer to the low, glowing campfire.

His first indication was the horses standing a few feet away from the two men on the ground, no lead rope, no hobbles, nothing. The horses continued to stare at him curiously as he took a few more silent steps toward the waned campfire. Then he stopped again, suddenly. His gun hand tensed as he saw one of the men's eyes staring straight at him. But he uncoiled his grasp when he saw the curtain of dark blood down the man's chest, the open gap in his throat.

He let out a tight breath. He looked at the other man and saw the same gruesome handiwork, only
this one with his eyes half-closed staring off at the pale morning sky.

The Ranger inspected the campsite in the grainy morning light. He first pressed a hand to each of the dead men's foreheads. He took note of the blackened blood, the slight congealing of it. Next, he stood up and walked all around the campsite. The loose horses followed him as he tried to construct an idea of what might have gone on there on that isolated hillside in the dead of night. But no clear picture came to him. He found the horses' rope line cut and lying on the ground; he found hoofprints leading away from the rope line in opposite directions. One group of prints led to the trail headed down toward Big Sand. Hooves in the other direction led toward any number of narrow paths and game trails leading back in the general direction of the Mexico-France Consorta Mines.

Three sets headed back that way . . . why?

He gazed out across the hill line and the sand flats below. Regardless of the condition the robbers had left the mine company in, he was confident that by now the miners would have gathered horses and arms and put together some sort of search posse. Who would ride back that way?

Finally he pushed up the brim of his sombrero and walked back to the path leading down to where he'd hitched his horses. He'd slipped his Colt into
its holster and started to loosen their reins from the juniper when he heard a voice from the brush and rock behind him.

“Leave them where they're standing, mister. You're not going anywhere,” the voice said confidently.

Sam heard the slow cock of a rifle and knew it was meant to get his attention. It did. His hand froze for a moment at the hitched reins, then pulled back slowly and rose chest high. He turned to face Fox Pridemore and two Perros Locos, all three with rifles aimed at him.

“Well, now,” Fox said, seeing the badge on Sam's chest. “You must be the Ranger who's been dogging my pal Ozzie.”

“I am,” Sam said, managing to ease his cocked rifle around, his right hand raised but his left holding the rifle aimed and ready at Fox's belly. “Where is he?” he asked, as if not realizing the men were any real threat to him.

“Where is he . . . ,” Fox chuffed, and said to his two gunmen, “Can you believe this man?” He said to Sam, “Drop the rifle. We'll go tell him howdy.”

Sam ignored dropping his rifle.

“He's not up there,” he said. “But two of your men are, with their throats cut.”

Fox's stare hardened.

“Get up there, Otis. Check it out,” he said to Otis Seedy. As the gunman hurried away along the path to the boulder, he said to the Ranger, “If Ozzie's dead, you'll be joining him in hell.”

“I told you Ozzie Cord's not up there,” Sam said. “If he was, he'd be in cuffs right now, or dead.”

“Keep lying,” said Fox. “I've always wanted to kill one of you five-pointed fools.” He nodded at the five-pointed Ranger star badge on Sam's chest.

“Jesus, Zorro! They're dead up here!” Otis Seedy shouted down from behind the boulder.

Fox glanced up the path. He hardened his stare as he turned back to the Ranger.

“What about the money, Otis?” he called out.

“There's no money,” Sam said.

“Shut up, Ranger,” said Fox.

“The money's gone, Zorro,” Otis called out.

“Our money is gone?” said Sergio Sega. He stepped forward heatedly, his cocked rifle tight in his hand. “Let me kill this one!”

“Stand down, Sega!” said Fox, shoving the rifle barrel away angrily. “Kill him when the time comes. First let's see about the money.”

“He has it!” Sega said, his temper raging out of check.

“Get up there, Sega!” Fox said. “Before I shoot you where you stand.”

As the hotheaded bandit turned in a huff, Fox gestured up the path. Realizing it was too late to even try making the Ranger drop his aimed and cocked rifle, Fox sidestepped along with him. Sega rushed on ahead of them.

“Don't even think of trying anything, Ranger,” Fox said, the two of them ascending the path by themselves.

“I'm not going to try anything. I'm curious about
all this,” Sam said, walking on, his rifle steadily aimed at Fox as if he'd had the drop on the three all along.

“Jesus, Zorro, look at this!” Otis Seedy said as the two walked into sight around the boulder. Sega had kneeled over Stampeto's stark pale corpse.

Fox lowered his rifle an inch. Sam noticed, but kept his level and ready.

“Feel his face, Sega,” he said.

Sega gave his leader a strange look and started to stand up toward Seedy.

“Not Otis' face, gawd-damn it,” said Fox, “Silvar's!”

Sega kneeled back down quickly and placed a hand on the pale face of Silvar Stampeto. He gazed at Fox, awaiting further orders.

Fox let out an exasperated breath, glanced at Sam, then said to Sega, “Is it cold?”

Sega looked all around as if checking the weather.

“No!
Gawd-damn
it!” shouted Fox. “You stupid son of a bitch! Is Stampeto's
head
cold?”

“Jesus. . . .”
Otis Seedy shook his head and looked away.

“
Sí
, yes,” said Sega, finally getting it. “His head is cold.” He gave a shrug. “Cold and dead.”

Fox looked at Mirano's corpse. “They're both cold. Whoever killed them did it earlier in the night. They were dead when I got here.”

“Save your breath, Ranger,” said Fox. “I know you didn't do it. We spotted you on the trail before you headed up here. You didn't have time.” As he spoke he lowered his rifle a little more.

The two gunmen walked back to Fox and stood awaiting what he had to say.

“Looks like the three of them killed these two and took off with our money,” he said. He looked off along the hill trail leading back toward the mines. The other two looked off in the same direction, their rifles slumped in their hands.

Sam knew the money he was talking about was most likely the mine payroll money. But the payroll money wasn't why he was here. The man he was after was still somewhere ahead of him. He had to catch him before the trail between them grew longer. While the three stood looking away, he eased his Colt from his holster and held it leveled at them in his right hand. Now he didn't have to act as if he had the drop on them—he
had it
.

“You want to hear what I think?” he said quietly. Even with the upper hand, he didn't want to spark a gunfight if he could keep from it.

The three turned toward him. First thing, their eyes went to the Ranger's rifle and Colt pointed at them, both guns cocked and ready.

“Easy, fellows,” he said calmly. “I'm not your enemy. I don't want your money and I don't want to kill you unless I have to.”

Fox let out another breath and glared at his two men, as if they had allowed the Ranger to take over.

“All right, Ranger, what you figure happened here?” His rifle slumped more; he gestured his men to lower theirs.

“Your pal Ozzie killed your men and took your money,” Sam said.

“There were two others here,” Fox offered. “Ozzie might not have been in on it.”

“If he wasn't, he is now,” Sam said. “Either way we're after the same man . . . for different reasons.”

“That don't make us partners, Ranger,” Fox said.

“I'm not saying it does,” Sam said. As he spoke he took a step back toward the path to his horses. “All I want is to get out of here without a gunfight. I'm going after Ozzie. I know you are too. I'll stay out of your way if you'll stay out of mine.”

“Problem is, I'm not out to kill him . . . leastways not until I know he's done us wrong,” said Fox.

Sam took another step back.

“I'm not out to kill him either,” Sam said, “unless he pushes me to it.”

“You're known as a hard-boned killer, Ranger,” Fox said.

Sam replied, “I'm taking him back.”

Fox took a step forward as Sam took another step back.

“Ranger, you take Oz back across the border, they're going to hang him,” he said.

“I don't care,” Sam said. “I don't care if they hang him every day for a month. That's up to a jury. He killed a sheriff.” He took another step back. This time Fox stopped and made no effort to keep him from leaving.

When the Ranger was out of sight around the boulder, Otis Seedy started to hurry forward, but Fox stopped him.

“Leave him be,” he said.

Seedy and Sega looked at him.

“I don't care what he said. He'll kill Ozzie,” said Seedy.

“If Ozzie and Rayburn stole our money, I don't care if this Ranger kills them both, long as we get the money back,” said Fox. “Either way, wherever this Ranger goes we'll be right behind him.”

“What about the woman?” said Sega.

“Forget about Terese,” said Fox. “Whoever's got the money gets the woman. My pa taught me about
putas
a long time ago.”

*   *   *

In the morning light Rayburn reined his horse to a halt and sat closely studying the distant sky west of them. At the far edge of the sand flats, dust rose and swirled. To their left the Mexican hill lines lay strewn out in endless rows one after another. To their right a world of heat, sunlight and sand stretched for twenty miles or more, a land filled with dry washes, cactus and stone. The woman had been afraid that at any moment Rayburn might tell her they had to cross that inferno. But he didn't.

“Looks like we're in luck,” he said, craning upward in his saddle. “I'm betting this will be the miners coming. If we're lucky we'll meet them straight-on.”

“What?” said Terese, taken aback by his words. “You—you want to run into the miners?”

Rayburn stared straight ahead toward the white distant sky.

“I sure do,” he said. “I know it's going to take some explaining. But once they understand, they'll be grateful to get their money back.”

Terese shook her head, as if to clear it. “But I thought—” She gestured a hand toward the bags of money stacked and tied down behind Rayburn's saddle. “I thought we would keep the money, the two of us. You even said,
How would I like to leave with the money?
”

Rayburn looked around at her, then back out at the dust.

“Yes,” he said. “I figured you'd get some satisfaction taking it, after the way you've been treated by Fox.”

Terese just stared at him.

“I figured you'd know I meant to return the money to its rightful owners as soon as I found a way to do it,” he said.

“I thought you meant you and me, all this money . . .” Terese let her words trail.

“I didn't mean to give you any wrong ideas, ma'am,” said Rayburn. “I thought you wanted away from those Perros Locos, before they started passing you around when Fox got tired of you.”

“I did,” Terese said. “Of course I did.” She gestured at the canvas bags. “But the money, the two of us . . . ?” She paused to let the vision sink in. “I could make you so happy for saving me.”

“I bet you could, ma'am,” said Rayburn, turning away and putting his attention back toward the
far-distant riders. “But you've got to understand—I'm a guard. My job is protecting people's money. I take my responsibilities very seriously.” He smiled toward the far horizon in satisfaction. “My whole life I've been a bank guard, a shotgun rider . . . a lawman of some sort, off and on. For a time I even considered—”

The sharp crack of the small Uhlinger pocket pistol resounded behind him. His words stopped short; he jerked upright in his saddle. His hand went around to the small of his back and felt the warm blood oozing from the wound.

“You—shot me,” he said haltingly. As he said it the small pistol fire cracked again. He stiffened more. The second bullet hole was only a few inches from the first.

Without wasting time, Terese gigged her horse over beside him, jerked his Colt from its holster and aimed it at him. Rayburn stared at her, his face frozen.

“Why?” he said in a failing voice. Even with a bullet in his back he managed to keep his spooked horse under control.

“Why?”
said Terese. “Are you kidding me? For the money, you
idiota
.” She cocked his Colt at him. “I am a
puta
—a whore. Do you think I have never been passed around before?” She started to pull the trigger, but before she could, Rayburn fell sidelong from his saddle onto the scorching-hot sand.

So much the better. . . .

Before Rayburn's horse could bolt away, she grabbed its reins and yanked it over beside her.

“Give me any trouble and I will shoot you too,” she warned the nervous animal. She looked at the canvas bags as though to make sure they hadn't disappeared in their melee. She managed a dry, tight smile in spite of the toll the desert heat had taken on her face, her lips.

With Rayburn's heavy Colt hanging in her hand, she rode away toward the distant rising dust, leading Rayburn's horse—and the bags of money. Knowing she'd have plenty of time to veer over across the flats and avoid whoever was coming, she rode straight ahead for now. She knew of a small village hidden off a hill path that lay only a few miles ahead, a place none of these gringos would know about.