Dead river, p.16
Dead River, page 16
“Bueno,” Vasquez said, and the rider lowered the cheap binoculars—not the nice Yankee ones Frazer had taken off a dead brigadier at Brice’s Crossroads—and returned to the line of Mexicans.
Vasquez issued another order, then dismounted. The Mexicans began tightening their cinches, but Santiago Vasquez left his reins dangling in the dust as he walked to Frazer. A peon went to the fine stallion and worked on his commander’s saddle.
Vasquez gestured at the valley. “That, Señor Frazer, appears to be a camp of a peaceful party of my people. Does it not look that way to you?”
“That’s the report I got, Vasquez.” Frazer wet his dried lips.
“Sí,” Vasquez said softly. “Sí, sí, sí, sí. It would be a tragedy, would it not, if such peons, traveling with nothing but goodness in their hearts, traveling in peace for the village market to have been mistaken for an armed camp of . . . insurrectos . . . and slaughtered. Is that not so, amigo?”
“I reckon so.”
Vasquez laughed. “It would be even worse if such men and women of peace were mistaken for Apaches?” He shook his head, and slapped his sombrero on his pants leg. “Or Comanches.”
“It would be a damned shame,” Frazer said.
“Sí.” Vasquez returned his big hat to his small head. One of the two women walked over and handed Vasquez her canteen.
“Gracias,” he said, and drank, smacked his lips, and handed the canteen to the woman, nodded, and the woman held the canteen toward Frazer.
“For you, señor.” Frazer did not look at the woman.
“No thanks.” The canteen was not lowered. Frazer said: “Water’s precious here. And we just stopped to drink. Rest our mounts. Save it. You’ll need it before we get to the Dead River.”
Vasquez laughed again. “We will need water after we reach the Dead River, mi amigo, for el Río Muerto is dry. It is always dry. That is why we call it dead.” He laughed again. “Drink.”
“No thanks.”
“Drink, amigo. I insist. Besides. It is not water. It is better than water. It is tequila. The finest in the land.”
Frazer looked at the canteen, which the woman still had.
“I drank water myself.” Vasquez laughed. “It is not poison.” He barked in Spanish, and the woman, her cold eyes not moving from Frazer’s face, raised the canteen and took a long swallow herself, then once again held the canteen steadily for Frazer to take.
“And surely,” Vasquez said, “I would not have my lovely Adelina drink anything but the best.”
Sighing, Frazer took the canteen, held it toward Vasquez in a toast that did not hide his mockery, and took a sip. He returned the canteen to the woman, who spun, nodded at Vasquez, and returned to her horse.
“Bueno,” Vasquez said. “Muy bueno.”
“It ain’t Kentucky bourbon,” Frazer said.
Vasquez grinned, but his eyes turned a shade darker, yet only for a moment. Again he looked at the camp below.
“I say ten men, twelve?” Vasquez said softly.
“Ten,” Frazer said. “Two of them are women.”
The commander’s head nodded.
“I thought we were to meet you at the Dead River,” Frazer said. “What brought you here?”
“Women!” Vasquez slapped his thigh. “Cantinas.” He ran his red wool sleeve over his long mustache and thin lips. “And we did not wish for you and your soldiers to get lost in the desert. We thought we would celebrate, turn in our scalps for the bounty, and then ride to the camp of the murdering Apache of Three Dogs together. For we are partners, is that not so?”
“I reckon.”
Vasquez kept focusing on the camp in the valley.
“How far is it to the Dead River?”
Vasquez did not answer. “Ten men. Two women. But one of the men’s hair is silver.” He shook his head and crossed himself. “A pity.”
“Did you collect your bounties for the bunch of Apaches you did kill?” Frazer asked.
“No.” Vasquez drew a nickel-plated revolver from a holster, opened the loading gate, and spun the cylinder on his forearm, checking the rounds. “The village of Camila is north of here. When one of my scouts saw your dust, I guessed it would be you. No one rides atop this mesa unless he is in a hurry.” He pointed to the valley. “That is why they ride below. It is cooler. Out of the sun. And no one would be in a hurry, it struck me, to be anywhere in this month at this time of day, except Major Block Frazer and the Río Sangrieto Rurales of legend, fame, and mucho glory.”
Each drop of sweat made Frazer angrier, but he stood there, ever the Alabama gentleman, waiting for this damned rude guest to get to the point.
“One of them is but a boy.” Vasquez shook his head, then laughed. “And one—” Now he pointed, lifted his head upward and laughed heartily. “One . . . just . . .” He could not control his laughter, and turned and yelled at one of his men in Spanish, then, still chuckling looked back at Block Frazer. “One he removed his sombrero to wipe his face and head . . . and he is bald. Bald. We hardly ever see a bald Mexican. It is far too funny.”
“Maybe he got scalped,” Frazer said.
Which made Vasquez laugh even harder, but the cackling ended, and the scalphunter’s face hardened. “Twelve. Minus three. Nine scalps are hardly worth the effort, or the powder, or the lead. Is that not true?”
“Especially when they are not Apaches,” Frazer said.
“Yes.” Vasquez’s head bobbed. “That is why you stopped here, of all places, to rest your horses and drink your water. You did not even notice the poor peons below. You did not even think that you could pass the scalps of poor Mexican people as those of Apaches. You are good hombre. Muy bueno.” He called out in Spanish, and a dirty scalphunter, a peon, a mere boy, brought the high-stepping horse to his commander.
Vasquez swung into the fancy saddle without even noticing the boy, who raced back to climb onto his pinto pony. Again, the killer yelled in Spanish, then looked down at Block Frazer.
“To seal our partnership, amigo, this is my gift to you. My men, my two women, and I will kill and scalp those worthless peons below. We will take anything of value—mostly food and water—and we will burn their corpses so no one will ever know what happened here. And the nine scalps we will turn in to the alcalde at Camila. The bounty will hardly buy us a good dinner and good wine, but it is better than nothing. For you and your Rurales, it will be as though you are in the fanciest opera house in . . . oh, Vicksburg . . . that is a norteamericano villa, is it not? Watching from the balcony. Enjoy the show, amigo. Watch and see how we work.”
* * *
It was over quickly. Looking down at the slaughter, Major Block Frazer and most of his command remained silent. From what Frazer could see through the dust and gunsmoke, the travelers were not even armed—at least with firearms. One was shot down trying to use a bullwhip against the charging force of evil, evil men. One raised a spade. Most of them were running when the scalphunters rode over them to save their gunpowder and lead.
Then, the butchery began. Bodies were scalped, then dumped into the biggest of the wagons.
It was one thing, Major Block Frazer thought, for the Río Sangrieto Rurales to murder Mexicans, take their scalps, desecrate their bodies, and turn in the good scalps—the ones that could pass for Indian hair—and collect bounties. Frazer’s Rurales were white men, Southerners, not Mexicans. This . . . this . . . this was sickening. Mexicans killing Mexicans. For nothing more than money for liquor and grub, and maybe a woman or two.
Smoke now rose from the burning wagon, but the wind blew from the west, and the scent of burning human flesh would not reach the Río Sangrieto Rurales from their . . . what was it Vasquez had called it? Ah, yes, the balcony of a Vicksburg opera house.
Block Frazer wanted to spit, but his mouth was as dry as the mesa top on which he stood.
Below, Santiago Vasquez wheeled his magnificent stallion, held what had to be a scalp up toward the mesa, and yelled something in Spanish that the wind muffled and Frazer wouldn’t have been able to translate even if he had heard the words spoken clearly.
Vasquez spurred his stallion and his men and women and the boy followed. They pulled the burros and mules behind them, laden with supplies they might need for the journey to the Dead River. They found the switchback that would take them back to the mesa top.
Back to Major Frazer and the Río Sangrieto Rurales.
Frazer turned from the scene of butchery below, and swung into the saddle. “Let’s ride,” he ordered. “We’ll head for that village, Camila.”
“What about Vasquez?” someone asked.
“He’ll catch up or find us there.” Frazer waited till his command was mounted.
He looked at Joseph William Henderson III at his side.
“Well?” Frazer said.
Oaxaca Joe shook his head.
“I asked for your opinion, mister.”
Now the Alabaman spit into the sand, wiped his lips, and said. “Well, suh, we can’t always pick the men we fight with, Major. And I’ll be hogtied and damned if I ever thought I’d be sayin’ this, suh, but . . .” He turned his head to spit one more time, then wiped his lips with his sleeve, and let his Southern eyes burn into the major’s face. “But, suh, I’d rather ride with a bunch of damned Yankees than be caught dead with them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
They had their horses at a slow walk when the eastern skies began turning gray instead of ink black. Matt McCulloch called out to Blood Moon, “Stop.” The Apache obeyed and twisted in the saddle. Matt rested the Winchester on his thigh and tilted his head toward the west.
“There’s a water hole that way.”
The Apache straightened as if insulted. “I not need water.”
“Horses do,” McCulloch said. “And I bet you’d drink, too, even if you ain’t human.”
Blood Moon turned to look to the west, but did not kick his horse into a walk. McCulloch thought the renegade was testing the white man to see what he would do, how he could force the Indian to obey. Instead, Blood Moon looked back at McCulloch and asked, “How do you know this water hole?”
McCulloch shifted in the saddle and felt a weary grin crack his face. “You chase mustangs, you learn where most water holes are. Especially in this country.”
The Apache did the damnedest thing. He uttered what McCulloch had to take as a grunt of stunned respect.
“I thought no White Eye knew of that watering place,” Blood Moon said, his voice almost a whisper.
McCulloch almost chuckled. “Hell,” he said, “I’m more mustang than white man anyway.” He nodded again in the general direction of the watering hole. “Don’t worry. As far as I know, I’m the only white man who knows where that water is.” He pointed the rifle barrel toward the southwest. “It’s—”
But the Indian was shaking his head. It was light enough now for McCulloch to make that much out.
“One does now,” Blood Moon said. “And he will be coming after you . . . and me . . . and the bloody money you Tejano dogs put on my head.”
McCulloch whispered Jed Breen’s name.
“Yes,” Blood Moon said, and explained. “The white baby needed water. So did your friend. And the mule we rode.”
“So you took them there.” McCulloch’s head shook. “You could have outlasted them. You left the damned kid out in the sun to die. Breen thought, but he can’t go without water as long as you could. Why didn’t you just let them die, as much as you hate white people.”
The Apache did not look at McCulloch as he answered. “Your friend would not die before I would. He would have put a hole the size of the mule in my belly before he crossed to the other side.”
McCulloch felt his head moving up and down. “Yeah.” He shoved the Winchester in the scabbard, but moved his right hand toward the holstered Colt. “I reckon he would have at that.”
Now he considered the situation in silence. Breen would follow, probably with Keegan. If they could get out of jail, and as well as McCulloch knew those two men, they were likely well on their way south by now. So would a posse or several posses from Purgatory City, and before long, surrounding settlements. Twenty thousand dollars could bring out even town loafers and saloon rats, probably even a struggling businessman or two. The Army from Fort Spalding wouldn’t sit still either. Before long, this part of Texas would be crawling with Indian haters, bounty hunters, cowboys, ne’er-do-wells, lawmen and plenty of jaspers just eager to do something to break the damned monotony of living in this hard land.
“All right,” McCulloch said, and slowly slid from the saddle. Drawing the Colt, he waved the weapon so that the Apache knew he was to dismount, too.
“There’s another watering hole four miles southwest.”
“More mud than water,” Blood Moon said.
“We can dig it out. Well, you’ll dig it out.”
“It is a place known to Mexicans and your own people.”
“But they won’t go there unless they’re thirsty,” McCulloch said. “Because they don’t want to drink mud.”
The Apache nodded again. “Yes, you are not a White Eye at all.”
“We’re gonna do a little finagling.” Again, he used the Colt as a finger. “There are rawhide socks in the saddlebag. You’ll put them on the two riding horses. I’ll put some on the gray. He’s tuckered out enough not to want to fight or run. That’ll make the tracks harder to follow. Two socks on each hoof. To make it even more difficult.”
The Apache nodded again.
“And to make it even more confusing, we’ll switch horses. I ride yours. You ride mine. But you still pull the stallion.”
Now something that might have passed for a grin appeared on the Indian’s face as the sun began to appear over the wasteland.
“Don’t worry,” McCulloch said, and tapped the stock of the Winchester with the barrel of his Colt. “Yeah, your mount might be faster than mine, but he’s also really tired. And it’s daylight. I can see pretty well. And you ask any man, white, Mexican or Indian, and they’ll tell you that I won’t miss with a Winchester when it’s sunny.”
He pulled his blanket bedroll from behind the saddle. “And I’ll use this to wipe out most of the signs we’ve made here. Then we ride to Muddy Water Spring. We’ll rest there all day.”
Blood Moon grunted.
“That’s the way we do things for the next few days. We ride at night. Rest in the heat.”
“It is dangerous.”
McCulloch let his head bob. “Yeah, but no Indian scout, nobody at all, can see rising dust when it’s dark.”
“You are almost Apache.”
The white man’s eyes hardened. “Don’t ever call me that.”
* * *
Even after Blood Moon used his hands to dig out the mud, the water at Muddy Water Spring hardly looked fitting for a man to drink. The three horses didn’t mind, and McCulloch used two bandannas from his saddlebags to filter out much of the filth as he strained water into one canteen. He splashed more of the water, of a reddish-brown tint, over his face and head. With the sun where it was now, even the water felt hot, and no wind blew to cool him off.
Even the seconds crept along like hours. McCulloch longed for a cup of coffee, hot coffee, even in this furnace, but did not build a fire. There was hardly enough scrub in this hellish environment to get a fire going long enough to light a cigarette, and McCulloch didn’t want to risk anyone seeing smoke, either.
He could see the dust, especially from his perch on a slab of rock so that he could look down on Blood Moon, who sat in the sun, utterly oblivious to the burning heat and stinking mud.
“Three trails,” Blood Moon said without raising his head.
McCulloch nodded in reply. He wasn’t going to waste his breath with words. Plumes of dust rose in the distance, but one McCulloch guessed had to be coming from the stagecoach heading from Purgatory City to El Paso. That’s where it would be if it were running on schedule, and the new operator demanded that all drivers kept right on schedule. The other two spots just told McCulloch where idiots rode south. The smart men, the real posses, the men that posed the biggest threat to McCulloch and Blood Moon would not be riding hard enough to kick up dust that could be seen from McCulloch’s perch. As hot as it was, they would be riding slowly, trying to find tracks or horse apples, something that would tell them they were on the right trail.
But the men looking for McCulloch and the Apache would not just be coming from the north. Telegraph wires likely had been singing all night and most of this morning, so that meant Army patrols and lawmen would be patrolling the river that separated Texas from Mexico.
It would take some doing to get across the border. And then? Rurales. Mexican bandits. Scalphunters. Maybe even some Comanches following the Great War Trail.
Damn it all to hell, McCulloch thought, I really want some coffee. He was tired, and sweat burned his eyes, yet that pleased him. It kept him from growing even wearier, or falling asleep. Coffee could wait. It would have to wait. Besides, he knew coffee and sleep were nothing. He wanted his daughter even more.
“Hombre, do not move.”
The words came from behind McCulloch, just as a pebble rolled down the incline past the mustanger.
McCulloch did not move. The accent was heavily Spanish, and now a chuckle followed. Rapid Spanish followed, and McCulloch saw another man, wearing a beaded sugarloaf sombrero and the Mexican-style pants with conchos and studs down the legs. The man aimed a sawed-off shotgun at Blood Moon, who did not appear to even notice him. The Apache could have been asleep.
“Amigo,” the Mexican behind McCulloch said. “Your quick-shooting rifle, por favor. Pleeeze. Let it slide down this rock just a little. So you do not use it on Juan.” He let out a gleeful laugh. “Or me.”
McCulloch had been holding the rifle all this time, butted against the hot stone he sat on. His thumb moved to the hammer, and his finger tightened against the trigger, as the bandit said. “Do not make me shoot you, amigo. Not yet, anyway.”
“I just don’t want this .44-40 to go off by accident,” McCulloch said, adding “amigo” at the end, but spitting out that word.
