Blue (Ben Blue Book 2) Read online

  Following the sound of the sheep, we rode to the top of the slope. There we overlooked a small valley as green and smooth as the slope. I could see a jacal, a nearby sheep pen, and smoke coming from a cook fire. It all looked mighty peaceful. I figured, Rubio would get a chance to meet some distant kin.

  We rode on down, hoping whoever lived there wasn’t pointing a rifle in our direction. There were sheep milling around near the dwelling lazily taking care of sheep business. Rubio turned to me when were within a hundred and fifty yards and said, “No dogs… Dogs should be herding sheep in a bunch away from us… Dog no come out to front us… No dog!” He kicked his horse’s ribs, and I did the same.

  We swept into the yard scattering sheep as we came. I was sickened by what we saw. A man lay with one hand in the fire. He looked like an Indian by his hair and clothing. A midsized mongrel dog lay at his feet. Both were dead. The remains of a butchered sheep lay by the door of the jacal. Just inside the doorway a woman lay in a pool of blood. She was naked and dead. The story was easy enough to read. From her position and lack of clothing one could see what had happened. From the boot prints and their placement, they had taken their turns. When they had finished with her they had simply cut her throat.

  Any food stuff they may have had was gone along with anything else that was worth carrying off. Stepping on something I bent to pick it up and found a small crudely carved wooden doll. I looked at Rubio and he broke for the door. He went right and I went left around the structure, each of us hoping to find nothing.

  My hopes were smashed when I found two little girls lying together under a bush. One was about four years old and the other no more than two years old. Each one had her tiny skull crushed. My guess was that when the mother and father saw the riders coming, they sent the children to hide in the brush. They were scared and probably started crying. Picking them up, I carried them, with tears flooding my eyes, to the front of their home and lay them side by side.

  There was such a rage in me at that moment; I would have gladly cut the heart out of the living bodies of the ones who did this. But I didn’t have the ones responsible at that moment. All I could do was fume with impotent anger.

  Rubio found an old spade and a pick and we started digging a hole for the four of them. When it was wide and deep enough we wrapped the family in blankets and laid the mother and father side by side with the two little ones on top with the wooden doll between them. While he filled in the hole, I lashed two sticks together and made a crude cross.

  He hated leaving the sheep to fend for themselves, but there was no help for it. So we left them. If we found someone along the way, we’d let them know what had happened.

  When we were getting ready to leave he said, “Three mans… two with boots like you… one with boots small heel toe like arrow… big spur.” He led me back into the jacal and showed me the foot prints in the dry dirt floor. One set of prints had a much smaller heel print than the others. It was a style that some vaqueros were adopting, and the big Spanish spurs left distinct marks in the dirt.

  Rubio started casting around on the muddy ground. It was soft and pretty torn up but it was easy to see where they came from and where they went. From where we stood, we could see part of the trail about a quarter mile down the slope. It was probably a full mile beyond where we came up. They had come up and went back the same way. Three horses came, and three horses went… we followed them. At the bottom of the trace, we saw where the others had waited. I was relieved that the hostages didn’t have to see what they had done.

  “Who would do something like that? I mean murder those little girls in cold blood that way?” I asked.

  “Apache, Comanche, Yaqui, Ute, white mans, but Navajo, no kill babies.”

  “Were those people Navajo?”

  “Si.” He said without expression.

  “Ute and white men…. Let’s go get those sons of bitches.”

  Chapter 17

  He touched a moccasined heel to his horse’s ribs and I did the same. We rode as fast as we could under the conditions, which seemed to be almighty slow. We had lost time burying the family, but it had to be done for the sake of common respect for decent folk. I doubted if those three had spent more than a half hour at the jacal, and we had spent at least twice that long.

  The sky had been hanging low and dark, and thunder was rumbling through the peaks. It had begun to drizzle rain late in the afternoon. Rubio found a sheltered wind hollowed overhang where we could get the horses out of the rain, and we could build a fire. They had spent a good long time on the shepherd’s grass, so they at least had some good graze. We gathered wood for the fire, and I was able to whack off some low lying branches with my Bowie, to give them something to nibble on.

  Over supper, which didn’t consist of any strong black coffee or bread, Rubio asked, “We go to Black Mountain now? No tracks now.”

  I asked him if he could find it, and he looked at me funny then said, “Don’t need to find it… not lost… we just go there.” Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  I had continued blazing the trail for those who followed. I only hoped that they would hurry. Individually, I didn’t worry much about the Williams boys, but four of them together could be a handful. I didn’t know anything about what kind of metal the Rafferty brothers had. I suspected that they were both tough enough and mean enough. In fact, I’d been warned that Russell was the meanest of the bunch. I’d sure love to see the sheriff or the marshal come riding in with a half dozen armed men.

  The weather broke sometime during the night, and the morning was clear and fresh. It was a good day to be on the trail. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was time to push ourselves and the horses to the limit. We went down the side of one mountain and through a valley until that valley turned the wrong way, and then we went over the shoulder of another mountain and into another valley. It was a gamble, and if my life was the only one at stake I wouldn’t worry. But there were three innocent lives at stake, three very valuable innocent lives at stake.

  Then there was Rubio. He wasn’t all that innocent, but I had gotten him involved, and I felt responsible. Even though he had his own ax to grind over the pistol whipping of Nino, I still felt responsible for his being here.

  Our campsites were picked for the benefit of the horses more so than our own comfort. We looked for grass and water instead of protection from the weather. We could keep going after a wet night, but the horses needed rest and nutrition.

  Figuring that the Williams Rafferty bunch would come to Black Mountain by the southern approach, that was where we planned to start our search. Rubio had spent several evenings working on a bow and a few arrows hoping for a shot at some meat. He went into a meadow just before sunset and watched a water hole, and he was successful. A young muley doe put much needed meat in our bellies. Now if we could just find a coffee tree, we’d feel a lot better. Once we heard a rifle shot off in the distance. They could be two miles or ten miles away, but they were still moving and still going in the right direction.

  Reaching the base of Black Mountain from the southwest, we started searching for tracks. Since the rifle shots we had heard were coming from the northeast. I was still a little uneasy about the decision to come straight to Black Mountain, but it was the only lead we had. I kept thinking back to the fact that Paco Ramirez had run with a Black mountain band of renegade Indians, which gave me comfort. Then I realized that I didn’t even know for sure that Ramirez was the seventh man. I had to quit second guessing myself. I was holding the cards that had been dealt me plus the one card I had drawn. I was either going to call or raise, but I wasn’t going to fold.

  That night we camped several hundred yards above the valley floor and about ten miles north of where we started. We were well back in a small cove and well concealed. There was plenty of water and grass. The cedars and junipers were scattered, and thick in places. We had good visibility, but we would be hard to see.

  I felt like a dog who was chasing hi
s tail. I thought I could catch it, but I had no idea what I was going to do with it when I did. We obviously couldn’t jump out and tell them to drop their guns. We might get several of them, but they’d get both of us, and that wouldn’t do the hostages a bit of good. I wanted to get the women and Father Paul away from them, and then do what I had to do.

  If we could thin the odds a bit, that would help. We would have to wait and see what the fates put in our basket of opportunities. If all else failed, we’d have to create our own opportunities. If we could ease them into a feeling that they’d gotten away, then maybe they’d let down their guard. That just might work. About fifty or so mountain miles back there were those two days of rain, which washed out their tracks. I was sure they’d been breathing a lot easier since then.

  Our plan was to go a little farther north, until we’d come even with the Easternmost end of the mountain to the south of us. Then we would retrace our route and swing the other direction. It meant a lot of lost time, but it was what we had to do. If we couldn’t find any trace of them, we’d have to wait for the posse and scour the mountains to the south and east.

  Cimarron was the closest town, and it was somewhere due east out on the plain. I couldn’t imagine them going into Cimarron with a captive priest, a nun and a young woman. If they went to Cimarron that would mean that the hostages would be dead. If I went to Cimarron, it would mean that there was going to be a lot of blood spilled. A good deal of it would most likely be my own, but there’d be a lot of theirs soaking into the sand.

  Sitting by the small fire we’d built for our meal of fresh venison and little else, my mind was roaming, and I was trying to formulate a plan. I was also consumed with fears for the three innocents being held by that bunch. I had no doubt that the good padre would do all he could to protect the women, but how much longer could he stand in front of them as a shield. I figured at least three of them might have had some of their woman and blood lusts slaked at the sheepherder’s camp. That may save the women for a while but not for long.

  Chances are they were too busy moving to take the time. When they got wherever it was they were going that would no longer be an obstacle.

  My head was so full of dread I realized that I’d been staring at something off in the distance and not really seeing it. “Damn!” was my reaction. “Rubio! Look… Look there!” I almost shouted as I pointed across the valley.

  The Navajo jumped to his feet dropping the arrow he had been working on. Grabbing his rifle, he was beside me in a step. He followed my gaze and immediately picked up the flicker from the fire. It was four or five miles away and just a twinkle against the blackness of the mountain, but it was a light.

  They either felt safe enough to build a fire because they had lost us, or they expected anyone following them to be to the south and west of where they were. They wouldn’t expect anyone to be ahead of them. I was hoping against hope that it was them and not some grub-line riding cowboy cooking his beans and beef.

  If it was in fact rustlers, we’d be in a perfect spot to watch this whole end of that mountain. If they crossed the valley, we would see it. They were farther north than we’d expected. Black Mountain is a two headed monster, meaning that it had two peaks. It angled from southwest to northeast. The southern peak was the tallest at about nine thousand feet. It wasn’t tall enough to have snow all year. The other peak was about eight thousand feet, and in between was a saddle at about five thousand feet. From a distance it looked like two mountains.

  From where the fire was burning, they would only be a few hours coming down the slope and moving into the valley. I could wait. We were close…this was the first ray of hope since we lost the trail at least two days ago.

  From first light, I watched the valley floor for movement. I didn’t know where they were heading or where they might break cover. It was past mid-morning by the sun and ten fifteen by the watch in my vest pocket when I spotted the first horse move into the valley and then another and another. They were coming out and heading north and east of where we were. I couldn’t see faces from that distance even with the field glasses, but I could tell priests robes and ladies clothing when I saw them. Shielding my glasses with my hat to keep from giving a flash I counted four riders in front of the hostages and three behind. The leader was wearing a large Mexican sombrero… “Show me the way, Paco Ramirez.” I muttered to no one who could hear me.

  Rubio was wearing down, although he’d never admit it, I could see it in his face and the way he took little naps whenever he could. Hell, I was wearing down and I was fifty years younger than him. I woke him from his much needed rest and showed him what I saw. “We catch em now?” he asked.

  “Soon, my friend… very soon.”

  I told him that I didn’t want to start shooting while they were on the trail because if the prisoners were tied to their saddles, they’d be helpless when bullets started flying and horses started bucking. We would follow close behind and try to get them one by one when they stop. We’d just have to see what opportunities we could create.

  They came across the valley in a northeasterly direction. That meant they were heading for some place on the eastern slope. As they drew closer, I could see the wear that the hostages were showing. They were slumping in their saddles, clothes were torn and tattered. None of them were used to this kind of ordeal and it showed. For that matter, those riding with them weren’t in much better shape.

  We rode along the edge of the valley floor, marking the trail as we went. Several miles farther on we found where they left the valley and started up a dim game trail. It was rough going, but it would be harder for them having to lead their prisoner’s horses. We could hear an occasional yell or curse. Keeping close but not too close, we followed in their wake.

  Their horses were making rough work of it. I was sure that none of their mounts had been given much consideration during the flight. They weren’t that type of men. In fact I’d been told that Russell was hell on horses, and I had personal experience seeing Carver run his pony into the ground.

  I motioned to Rubio to hold up. We were practically stepping on their heels. We needed to get a little distance between us. Dropping back another couple hundred yards gave us a little breathing room. We weren’t likely to lose them on the wisp of a trail, so we trudged on.

  The trail was rugged and old. I saw signs of work on it here and there, but it hadn’t been used for several years. Saplings had grown up in the middle of it and horses had to scramble around them. Outcroppings and boulders were everywhere, and in some places there was mighty little room between them. It had most likely been created by deer or elk going and coming between the valley and the high country. Deer could go where a horse couldn’t, so it was a struggle all the way up.

  It was late afternoon, and we were still climbing. There was still noise coming from above and occasionally punctuated by some bad natured swearing. Whether the cussing was at horses, people, or general aggravation wasn’t immediately known. Those boys just weren’t a happy lot.

  Suddenly, the sounds and the tone changed. They must have reached their destination. Rubio and I held up, and waited. Rubio tied his horse and moved on up afoot. I changed to moccasins and followed. We had gained on them, even though we had been holding back. They had been making such a hard time of it we’d gained those couple hundred yards.

  When I caught up with Rubio, he was laying beneath some low lying bushes looking out over a large grassy shelf that ended with a long dugout built into the side of the mountain. The cabin was all of twenty five to thirty feet long and with an attached stable to the right. It was made of logs and had a split log roof which was covered with dirt and grass. The stable wasn’t nearly as well made but it was covered. Off to the right even farther was what looked like an abandoned mine entrance with a lot of rubble piled nearby.

  My guess was, someone thought he had found the mother lode and built for the long haul. There may have been two or more working it, or he may have had his family with him bec
ause that was a mighty nice mining cabin. And I didn’t even know how deep it went into the mountain. The mine may have petered out, or Indians may have run them off or killed them. It could have been Paco Ramirez’s renegade bunch that caused the stop in work. I was pretty certain that Vega was right about Ramirez being with the Williams.

  There were five of them in the yard unsaddling, smoking, and just milling around. Russell and Ramirez were nowhere in sight. The three hostages were seated on the ground near the stable. Tom was giving orders to the two younger ones and they were leading unsaddled horses off to the left and around a hump in the slope. There may be a pasture back that way; they’d need one with that many horses to feed. I can see how those renegade Indians would’ve found this place to their liking.

  From where we were, I could hear most everything that was spoken above normal conversation level. So when Russell came to the door of the cabin and called out, I had no problem hearing, “Milo, get them three women up and send em in here to get this place swept out and a fire started for cookin.”

  “Three women?” Milo looked bewildered.

  “If it’s wearin a dress, then it’s a woman, and it’ll be treated like one.” He yelled back to Milo, and then laughed at his own joke.

  Milo got the prisoners to their feet and swatted the young nun on the rear and said, “You heard him, git.” As he shoved the Father Paul forward.

  “Where’s Carver?” Russell called out.

  Tom looked up and said, “He took the horses to the pasture… Here he comes now.”

  When Carver reached the cabin, Russell told him, “We’re gonna be needin meat. Take your rifle and stake you out a place by the stream. When the deer come down this evenen, you git you one. If you don’t git one tonight, you wait till morning and git one, but don’t come back without one.. Y’hear?”