Hell's Gate (Ben Blue Book 8) Page 13

  My head still ached, but there wasn’t much I could do about it, so I just kept going. Baca was a good hand at tracking. He wasn’t in the same class as Rubio or Shad Cain or even his side kick Pedro, but he was a notch above most. I let him take the lead due to my blurred vision.

  About five miles out of Junction City, we picked up an east west trail heading for Gallup on the Arizona border. The trail wasn’t well used, but it was used enough to cause problems picking out the tracks we wanted to follow. That caused the need for a slower pace. So we lost precious time.

  The Arizona line was still several hundred miles away, so we had time to catch up between now and then. But the border didn’t really matter as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t even a line drawn on a map. It was just a sign on the side of the trail… if that.

  It galled me to think of them getting away, but I was more interested in recovering the money… all the money, than I was getting justice done. If we could get both, that would be best, but if I had to choose I would take the money back and send out wanted posters on the men. There were too many people who would be hurt if they got away with the money… both in Junction City and Taos

  We rode on putting one mile behind another, and the day grew long. We had water in our canteens, but finding a spring or a tank was on our minds. Baca saw the tracks first. Were they unshod Indian ponies, or were they unshod wild mustangs? The answer to that question could be a blessing or the beginning of a real problem.

  Wild Mustangs could be going to water, but any other kind of unshod could be Navajo or Mescalero Apache. There shouldn’t be any this far off the reservation, but there were a lot of things that shouldn’t be. Wild horses will follow their leader and spread out behind him. But Indians usually follow along single file… unless they don’t care to do it.

  The tracks were spread four or five across, and it looked like a bunch of more than twenty. Apaches didn’t usually travel in groups that large. They are prone to living off the land, and this land doesn’t offer much for larger groups. Eight to twelve warriors would be the most… usually.

  That many warriors would be highly unusual of in this country, so we followed the tracks hoping for water. They were going northwest toward a cluster of hills and a low mesa. The horses had been there and moved on. They had churned up the water, but there was a steady but light flow of water coming down from somewhere deep in the mesa. There was soon enough for the horses and the canteens. We didn’t stick around long.

  Within an hour, we were back on the trail moving southwest. The father and son were still on the same route, they hadn’t taken any side trips or done anything to try and throw us off. It probably never occurred to them that their tracks could be picked out from the older ones on the trail.

  It was getting close to dusk, when we started to worry for real. Several sets of tracks had overlaid those of Copeland and Smyth. The tracks had come from a long and rugged ridge that stretched of into the ever darkening gloom. They were unshod pony tracks, and this time, I didn’t have to think about what made them. There were six sets of tracks and they were following the same ones we were.

  They must have come upon the trail and saw two sets of tracks not far ahead. I’ve never known anyone red or white who wouldn’t like three to one odds. I didn’t know who we were dealing with, Mescalero, Chiricahua, or Navajo. It wouldn’t matter to us near as much as it would to those ahead of us. I knew old man Smyth was a good hand with a brass candlestick, but what could he do with a Winchester.

  There was nothing we could do that evening but hope whatever tribe it was didn’t like to fight in the dark. We made a cold camp with the intent of getting up early and moving at first light.

  As fate would have it, I spent a restless night and woke up well ahead of the sun. I didn’t want to build a fire and let anyone know we were there, so I walked out to a high point to have a look around. That’s when I saw the glow to the west. It was maybe five miles away judging from the skyline. I’d taken a similar look before the sun went completely down. Remembering certain features in the rugged hills helped me get a location on the fire.

  It wasn’t a big fire, but it was bigger than I would have had, and it was certainly bigger than an Apache would build. If we could see it they could see it. I didn’t much care if the Apaches caught up with the father and son pair, but they would keep the gold and use the paper money to build a fire. Too many people had worked too hard for it.

  I woke Baca. He was instantly awake, and I told him about the fire. “Fools.” Was all he said. We were ready to leave in a few minutes. The only thing we had used was our bedrolls and rifles. We stepped into our stirrups and left our barely used campsite.

  It was brisk and the horses were ready to go, but we had to keep them reined in. Since we didn’t have the benefit of light except for a little bit from a lingering moon, we would have to count on our sense of hearing and smell.

  It was a pleasure to be on the trail with Angel. He knew what he had to do and never questioned if I’d be there to do my part. We worked as two separate fighting men with one goal, and that was to defeat our common enemy. He didn’t worry about me, and I didn’t have to worry about him. It was the same way with Mike Flynn. I always knew he would back my play, as I would his.

  We were moving slowly and off the trail, to avoid the noise hard packed ground can create. It gets to the point that stones and gravel get worked up to the surface, and an iron shoe can really sing out when it strikes even a small stone. That was one thing we didn’t want to hear at the time.

  We were riding against a black wall of stone on our left a good twenty yards from the trail. The other side looked much the same way only the wall was more uneven than our side. That told us it was broken and there may be places where one piece would or could overlap leaving enough room for a horse to pass through.

  The sound of a horse blowing alerted us there were unfriendlies close by. We both stopped and spoke low to our horses. They were coming out of one of those overlaped places, unseen. But we had heard the slightest noise, which probably saved our lives, by allowing us to be behind them and not in front of them.

  Waiting until they had all passed us, we moved on forward. We could smell their dust although they had raised very little. We had counted on them moving in under the cover of darkness and attacking with the sun at their backs. The only flaw in our figuring was me waking up so early. A few seconds sooner and we would already be in a running gun battle.

  We could see the glow of the fire, not a half a mile ahead and up in the rocks on the other side of the trail. The sky was turning gray and we could pick out features in the rocks. They had left their horses tied just off the trail and climbed up in the rocks, so they could shoot down into the camp. We tied up a little way back and around a slight bend. Then we joined them in the rocks, but about seventy yards back.

  I could see four of the six from where I was perched. I was counting on Baca being able to see the other two. We could see the camp as well as the Indians could, but nobody had a shot due to boulders and other debris from higher up.

  The sun was reaching the tops of higher hills and peaks. As it got lighter and visibility grew better, I spotted the other two Apaches. Someone was stirring in the camp. A head popped up then disappeared. It was Copeland, and he was working on the fire. In a few minutes the sun would be in his eyes.

  One of the Apaches, probably a young buck, came up from his hiding place and took a shot… minutes too soon. Copeland spun around holding his right shoulder screaming. Baca put a bullet between the young brave’s shoulder blades. He fell over the rock he was using for cover.

  The remaining five braves opened fire on the camp. And bullets were coming from the camp. We let them spray lead around in each other’s direction. The Indians started the old Apache trick of going down behind one rock and coming up from behind another. They were moving in, and it was time to send them home to Mama.

  Chapter 24

  There were five Apache braves b
etween us and the stolen money. Not to mention the two men we had tracked and intended to take back for a trial and a hanging if the twelve good men of Junction City, New Mexico thought they deserved such a fate. I was pretty sure they would, since many had been paying for protection from those who would cause them harm. Also there were the bank depositors who had just been robbed.

  I didn’t want to kill anymore Apaches than we already had. So I signaled Angel Baca to shoot close by holding my thumb and forefinger close together. He got the message and sent a shot that could have been an easy kill from where he was, but instead he came within inches of the man’s face. I followed his shot with one much like it but involving another brave. When another turned to see where the shots were coming from, Baca left a nasty burn across his side.

  I dropped back to make sure they kept going once they got to their horses. We’d been generous by running them off instead of picking them off like target practice. It would have been easy enough, but there was no purpose to it. I figured those lads had jumped the San Carlos reservation looking for scalps and counting coup.

  The old days of the red man and many of his customs were gone. Stealing horses, and taking scalps, were once approved methods for a young man to win a bride. Sitting in front of a wickiup or planting corn didn’t seem to have the same romance attached to it… few songs were sung about a herder of sheep. I didn’t exactly blame them for what they were trying to do, but those lads were fighting a losing battle.

  They had reached their horses and were wheeling to make a run for it, when one of them spotted our horses. He stopped and yelled to the others who turned back. He kicked his pony’s flanks and I shot him off the blankets he was using for a saddle. Some folks just didn’t know when to cut and run.

  The young warrior was trying to get up, when another leaned over and hooked an arm under his and lifted him nearly to his feet. Another brave hooked the other arm. They rode off with the injured man between them his moccasins dragging in the dust. It was a sight to see. I could have easily shot at least one of the other two, but that wouldn’t have been much of a reward for saving a brother warrior.

  When I got back to our new position, that being the one the Apaches had just left, Baca was waiting.

  “They are confused, they don’t know why the Indians went.” He said.

  “It’s time we let them know about their new tormentors.” I told him as I began yelling in their direction, “Copeland… Smyth… This is Deputy Marshal Blue. Throw out your weapons and get your hands up.”

  Smyth yelled back, “Forget it, Blue. We ran those Indians off and there’s only two of you.”

  “You didn’t run anyone off. We killed one and wounded one, and they took off…

  “They were just a bunch of youngsters playing warriors… I came out here to let you know how we captured your whole gang in only a few minutes. They were eager to quit… You see that wall behind you? Watch this.”

  I rose up a mite and bounced a slug off that wall and it whizzed past them and kicked up dirt in front of them. Before they could get over that I sent another bullet a little higher up. Baca caught the idea and pumped a few in the same area.”

  Copeland was yelling and his father was swearing.

  “The trouble is, we just don’t know where that lead is gonna go after it hits the rocks… it could go left, right, or up and down. But sooner or later it gonna get you.” And I pumped two more in there.

  Copeland came out screaming like a school girl who stepped on a snake. His father was still swearing, but then he was cursing his son saying, “You worthless whining worm… I’d have been far better off with a daughter.”

  Angel put a few more bullets into the rocks, and Smyth came out covering his head with his arms. Angel kept them covered while I scrambled over rocks and boulders down to the camp. The first thing I did was make sure there were no hide out weapons on either one. The whole time I was doing that Copeland was wailing about his wound, and Smyth was cursing him and blaming everything on him.

  By the time I had them searched and all their weapons out of their reach Angel had brought the horses up. He then went beyond the rocks behind the camp to get their horses. He was only gone less than a minute. I knew something was wrong when I saw his face. We all looked at him. He was wearing an expression I’d not seen on his face before. The others recognized it too because silence fell over the camp.

  Angel Baca was what could be called a professional adjuster. When there were abuses inflicted on his people, he found a way to adjust the situation. It often involved violence. Mine owners, big ranchers, bordello operators were the usual abusers. They’d recruit, buy or even kidnap peon men women and children from poor regions south of the border. They would often create some sort of indebtedness the peons would never be able to repay and became indentured slaves.

  Since most of the abuses were never reported to the law or were covered by contracts marked by an X, very little came to the surface. Several of the more wealthy and prominent New Mexicans of old families and old money would hire Angel Baca to adjust the conditions. In the Spanish speaking circles he was called the Avenging Angel, but those who had to face him called him the Angel of Death.

  He was a very imposing man, tall and thin and dressed in black with strong handsome features. He could put the icy fingers of fear into the hearts of mine operators as easily as he could cause the thrill of a flutter in the heart of a young señorita.

  Pulling his gun, he drew the hammer back with a click that sounded like the breaking of an oak branch in an ice storm. Baca grabbed Copeland by his once white shirt and jerked him forward jamming the muzzle of his colt under his chin.

  “Benito, have a look at those horses and then give one good reason why I should not pull the trigger and blow the heads off of both of these suns of sows.”

  Something had turned a deadly fighting man into a potential cold blooded killer. What I saw on the other side of the rocks turned my stomach. One of the two horses was standing head down and tied fast to a small silver leaf oak. It was still saddled from the day before. I’d seldom seen a horse look so thoroughly worn out. I could see where he had tried to feed on the leaves, but the reins had been too short.

  The other one was down and barely alive. Her head was off the ground due to the short rein. The weight of her head and neck had bent the branch but not enough to let her die in comfort. Her tongue was swollen to the point of cutting off her breathing. The first thing I did was slashed the leather, so her head could at least drop.

  There was no saving the mare. We didn’t have enough water to get her on her feet, and with her throat all but closed off we wouldn’t be able to get in her. I walked back to the camp and picked up their canteens. There were two nearly empty and two completely full. Then I grabbed the hat from Smyth’s head and told Baca,

  “I’m still working on a reason, just a few more minutes… Be patient.

  Back on the other side of the rocks, I filled Smyth’s twenty dollar hat with water and held it up for the standing horse. While he was sucking it up, I pulled the slip not to get him free. Then I set the hat on the ground for him.

  Looking down at the mare, she seemed resolved to her fate. I kneeled and stroked her neck to soothe and comfort her just a little. She was close to her last gasping breaths, but she could lay and suffer for another hour. I placed the muzzle of my Colt at the base of her skull and pulled the trigger.

  The gelding had sucked up everything he could get from the hat and was licking the bottom when I returned to him. I gave him another half a hat full, and went back to where Baca held the father and son in mortal fear. He looked at me as if to ask which one.

  “The mare wouldn’t have lasted an hour.” I told him.

  Copeland, who had been shoved away by Baca said, “Oh good I can still ride the gelding.” And with a smirk he looked at Smyth and said, “You always insisted on a mare.”

  I fixed Copeland with a glare like a bug on a pin and got chin to chin with him and ask
ed, “When was the last time you watered those horses?”

  He shrugged and looked to his father. Smyth snapped, “What does it matter, we can ride double. And we’re in no hurry to get there.”

  “I’ll wager those animals haven’t seen water or a feed for over three days. And it’s a good thing you’re not in a hurry because it’ll take you at least four days to get to town.”

  “How can that be? It only took us a day and a half to get here.”

  “That’s true, but you were ridin’ when you came out… you’ll be walkin’ when you go back. One horse is dead and the other may not make it. And you damned sure ain’t ridin’ with me. Señor Baca might like some company, but I doubt it. In fact I think he’d just as soon cut you both up and leave you for the buzzards.”

  “Benito… we could just leave them for the Apaches. They will be back for the body of their amigo.”

  “Those youngsters would put a lot of effort into it.” I told him. “But I don’t even want to think about that. Besides, I doubt these two would last through the night…even if they did them one at a time.”

  I went rummaging around in their things and found a satchel containing a large amount of money. Inside there was a smaller pouch with Ladder 6 burned into the flap. Inside the pouch was a stack of paper money, a quantity of gold coin, and a receipt signed by Buck Blaylock and Fess Painter… It was a lot of money, and I was hoping it was all there. It would take someone a month to get all this sorted out.

  Copelands horse had finished with the half hat of water, so I gave him another half a hat. I didn’t want him to gorge himself. As dry as he was, he would drink as much as he could get at.

  “Get what you can carry and be ready to march. We’re headin’ for Junction City as soon as I strip the rig off that horse.”

  “You mean we’ll have to ride bareback… Don’t you know I’m wounded?” Copeland shouted at me.