[Texas Rangers 06] - Jericho's Road (15 page)

Mouth half full of dirt, the man shouted an angry string of muffled words. The only one Andy knew was
gringo.

Len said, “Turn him over.” He pulled the Mexican’s hands together in front of him and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. The man saw the silver peso badge on Len’s shirt and launched into another spasm of cursing. Andy caught the word
rinches.

He asked, “Do you know what he’s talkin’ about?”

Len said, “Us, mainly. And he’s upset over bein’ a poor shot.”

“
What’ll we do with him?”

“
Take him to camp. The lieutenant’ll have some questions for him.”

“
Reckon he’s part of Lupe Chavez’s bunch?”

“
Could be. But there’s oodles and gobs of bandits that don’t belong to Lupe, just like there’s a lot of Texas border jumpers that don’t ride for Jericho. He may be one of those that got pushed off of their land. Killin’ gringos helps them sleep better.”

Andy looked around with some apprehension. “He might not be by himself.”

Len said, “It’s kind of like with rattlesnakes. Where there’s one you’ll sometimes find more.”

Andy said, “I’ll make a quick circle and find out.” He rode out a little way while Len shouted at him to be careful. He saw no sign that anyone had been with the shooter, though he found the man’s horse tied a short distance away. He led it back.

He motioned for the prisoner to mount. He cut a leather string from the man’s saddle and tied the handcuffs to the big flat Mexican saddle horn. Anger in the prisoner’s eyes began giving way to fear. He said something Andy did not understand.

Len said, “He’s askin’ what we’re fixin’ to do to him. I can’t talk enough Mexican to give him an answer. About all I can say is ‘
¿Quién sabe?
’ Who knows?”

Andy added that to his vocabulary. By now he had learned at least half a dozen usable words, not counting a few curses picked up here and there.

Riding alongside the Mexican, Andy was aware of the man’s growing anxiety. His own initial resentment ebbed. He even began to feel a twinge of sympathy. “I believe he thinks we’re goin’ to shoot him.”

Len said, “We ought to, but it’s probably against some law or other. There’s so many laws nowadays that a man can’t do nothin’, hardly.”

By the time they approached the row of tents that made up the camp, the prisoner’s head was bowed, his eyes closed. He mumbled to himself. Andy suspected he was saying a prayer.

They rode to the headquarters tent. The camp looked to be almost deserted except for the cook and a couple of Rangers standing at the mess tent. Sergeant Donahue emerged, gravely eyeing the prisoner. He asked, “What you got here?”

Len said, “He taken a shot at us. I swear I felt that bullet tickle the hairs growin’ out of my ear.”

Andy said, “We thought the lieutenant would have some questions for him.”

“
The lieutenant’s been called to Austin. I’m in charge.” Donahue motioned toward the headquarters tent. “Bring your prisoner in. I’ll question him.” The two Rangers had left the kitchen and ambled up to see what was going on. One of them was Mexican. The sergeant said, “Tanner, Pickard, you-all go on down to the mess and have Pablo fix you somethin’ to eat. Me and Manuel will talk to your prisoner.”

Manuel was the only Mexican Ranger in camp and one of only two or three Andy had seen anywhere. Manuel untied the leather string that bound the prisoner’s handcuffs to the horn, then spoke sharply in Spanish. The man dismounted, casting a fearful look at the sergeant.

Donahue said, “I ain’t real good at Mexican lingo. Manuel knows how to question a bandit.”

It struck Andy that Manuel should have compassion because he and the prisoner were of the same blood, but Donahue dispelled that idea. He said, “Manuel hates bandits even worse than the rest of us do. He lost his family to them.”

Andy turned that over in his mind. “Maybe he’s
too
hostile.”

“
They may lie to him once, but they don’t do it a second time. You-all go on like I said, and get you somethin’ to eat. We’ll take care of this, me and Manuel.”

Manuel grasped the prisoner’s shoulder and roughly pushed him into the tent. Donahue followed, closing the flap’s opening behind him. Andy heard a clatter, then a solid thump, like a chair falling over and someone hitting the ground.

Len motioned. “It’s none of our business from here on. Let’s go eat.”

“
Sounds like they’re knockin’ him around.”

“
They’re not treatin’ him as rough as what he had in mind for us. He meant to see us both dead, remember?”

“
I hate to see anybody mishandled.”

“
If you was to get caught by Mexican bandits, you figure they’d treat you like a pet? You know what your Comanche brothers did to people they captured. Like for instance your—”

Len broke off. Andy knew what he had been about to say—
like your mother.
The unexpected thought left him feeling cold.

He said, “I guess you’re right. We’d better go eat.” But he wondered if he would be able to.

Pablo saw them coming and lifted a blackened Dutch oven onto a bed of glowing coals. He dropped a generous quantity of lard in to melt as the bottom heated. “Pretty soon I fix you a good supper. You hungry, Andy?” He ignored Len.

Andy had lost his appetite, but it gradually returned as he smelled the aroma and listened to steaks sizzling in the boiling grease. Beef was plentiful. The Rangers had no compunctions about slaughtering cattle that strayed across the river from Mexico, even if sometimes they had to encourage the move.

Beans cooked for the noon meal had been reheated for supper and kept hot for anybody riding in late like Andy and Len. Andy sipped steaming coffee and tried to concentrate on the coming meal rather than what might be going on in the headquarters tent.

Len told Pablo about their trip, including their meeting with Jericho. He did not mention burning the windmill.

Pablo’s mustache drooped more than usual. “That Jericho is
un mal hombre.
Very bad fellow.”

Len shook his head. “I think me and Andy could’ve whipped him. But he ain’t on the fugitive list, so there wasn’t no use.”

Andy pictured Jericho in his mind. “I’m not all that sure we could’ve done it. He looked as big as a horse.”

Len said, “The big ones take longer but fall harder.”

Pablo announced that the steaks were done. “
Comida.”
Andy and Len each got tin plates and dipped the meat from the boiling lard. They added a generous helping of beans and broke off chunks of cold flat bread left from the company’s supper. Pablo pointed to a can of molasses. “Got plenty lick. Good with the bread.”

Len said, “We’ll finish up with that for
de
ssert.” He lit into his supper with a vengeance. “The Ranger service feeds good when you’re in camp. The hell of it is that we’re gone most of the time and have to fix our own. Old Pablo’s hard to beat.” He looked up at Pablo. “Where’d you learn to cook so good?”

Pablo wiped his dark hands on a cloth apron that once had been a sugar sack. “I was one time a soldier. The officer, he gives me a pot and says I must cook. I know nothing of such things, but when an officer says do, you do.”

Len asked, “When was that?”

“
In the war against the
americanos.
Once I fight you. Now I cook your supper. Pretty good joke.”

“
As long as you don’t put rat poison in the beans.”

“
I would not do that for such a good boy as Andy. But you?” Pablo shrugged as if in some doubt.

Andy carried his plate and utensils to a washtub and dropped them in. He had just poured a fresh cup of coffee when he heard a shout from the direction of the headquarters tent. Turning, he saw the Mexican prisoner running. The interrogator Manuel calmly stepped outside, leveled a rifle, and fired. The prisoner staggered and pitched forward on his face.

Andy spilled most of his coffee. Len simply stared, his mouth open.

Pablo did not appear surprised. He said, “He was dead already when he came. When Manuel finishes with the talking, it is left only to bury them. It is an old Mexican way, the
ley de fuga.
”

Andy had heard the expression. It referred to shooting a prisoner trying to escape.

Len broke his silence. “Lieutenant Buckalew don’t hold with such as that.”

Andy said, “But he’s not here. I’m bettin’ they pushed the prisoner out of the tent and told him to run.”

Len frowned. “Whatever you think, you’d best keep it to yourself. Donahue can make life tougher than a boot for them that ask questions. Anyway, you didn’t see the prisoner start. You just saw him fall.”

“
Call it a Comanche hunch.”

“
It ain’t somethin’ you could swear to in front of a jury.”

Andy had seen death before, but it still shook him to look it in the face, especially when it was sudden and unexpected. He walked up as Donahue knelt beside the dead man and examined a blood-rimmed hole in the back of his shirt.

Donahue said, “Caught him right between the shoulder blades. Damned if I’d want Manuel aimin’ at me.”

Andy felt a troublesome responsibility inasmuch as he and Len had brought the prisoner in. “Did you-all have to kill him?”

Donahue was surprised at being challenged. “Look, Private, he was runnin’ away. He was just another Mexican bandit. There’s plenty of them left, so it’s a small loss to the world.” He started to leave but turned for a few more words. “Since you’re so concerned, you can take a shovel and dig a hole for him. You and Tanner.” He pointed. “He ain’t the first. You’ll find a bandit graveyard yonderway about a hundred yards.”

“
Anybody goin’ to read over him?”

“
Hell no. It was the devil that sent him. The Lord doesn’t want him.”

Andy wondered how so many people seemed to know what the Lord wanted.

Len walked up in time to hear most of it. When Donahue was gone he said, “Looks like you talked us into a diggin’ job.”

Andy knew who would do most of the work.

Mounds indicated half a dozen unmarked graves. Whoever was buried there had simply vanished from the earth. Andy guessed that friends and kin still wondered what had become of them. He and Len took turns with the shovel, though Len’s turns were shorter than Andy’s. When the hole was dug they buried the blanket-wrapped prisoner without witnesses and without ceremony. Andy doubted that a minister or priest had ever visited this burying place or given it the sanction of a church.

He said, “Wonder what his name was?”

Len wiped his dirty hands on his trousers. “You probably couldn’t spell it even if you had a board to carve it on.”

They returned to the mess tent for coffee. Manuel stood at the edge of camp, smoking a cigarette and staring off into the gloom. Pablo saw Andy looking in Manuel’s direction. He said, “He has much hate in his heart.”

“
The sergeant said bandits killed his family.”

“
His papa had a farm. Not big, you know, just a little farm, but the Spanish king gave it to his great-papa long time ago. Banditos come. They shoot Manuel, they kill his papa, his mama, they carry his sister across the river. For a long time he looks, but never does he find her. So he kills bandits, and maybe sometimes he kills some who are not bandits. Many over there have tried to kill him, but some say he can never die. They say he is a son of the devil. The devil himself maybe.”

Andy shivered. “Damned if he doesn’t look like it.”

Just before time for bed, Donahue came to the tent Andy shared with Len and others. He said, “Your horses need a day of rest. You and Tanner will stay around and stand horse guard tomorrow.”

Andy noted that Donahue’s concern was for the horses rather than the men. Guarding the company horses was usually easy duty but boresome. Most Rangers came to dread it. Andy had done his share on the San Saba.

Donahue added, “You can start tonight, Pickard. You’ll stand the after-midnight watch.”

“
Yes, sir.” Andy knew he would get little sleep before going on duty and none the rest of the night. He was paying for having questioned the sergeant.

Donahue gave Andy a long study, one eye almost closed. “I hear you was raised by the Indians.”

Andy felt belligerence on the sergeant’s part. “Till I was maybe eleven or twelve years old.”

“
I got no more use for Indians than I have for Meskins. I hope you ain’t still got a bunch of Indian ideas in your head.”

Defensively Andy said, “I don’t scalp people, if that’s what you mean. And I don’t shoot them in the back.”

“
You better walk a real straight line, Pickard. I’ll be watchin’ you.”