CHAPTER THIRTY
Morning came, and Arman Broussard and his Mexicans halted. The coolness of the evening desert had fled, and the hot sun came up like a copper coin in a brassy sky. It was their second day on the trail south. The water in the canteen was almost gone, and strain showed on the faces of the Mexicans who’d been poorly fed and driven hard in the mine from dawn to dusk seven days a week for years.
One of them, an older man named Vincente Fonseca, was in a bad way. He was bone-tired, sagging from weariness, and his eyes were hollow. Before he was taken by the Rathmores he’d had six children, but he didn’t know where they were, and he believed his wife had died. When he’d been young and strong Fonseca had been a carpenter, but that was years ago and now his strength was almost gone.
Positioning himself so that his shadow fell on the old man, in his halting Spanish Broussard asked him how he felt. In a voice that was barely a whisper Fonseca told him that he must go on without him, that his time to die was very near and that he’d seen Santa Muerte, the Angel of Death, and she had beckoned to him.
Broussard said, “Despues de descansar, pronto te sentiras mejor,” hoping like hell it meant, “After some rest, you’ll feel better.”
But the old man shook his head and said no more. He died just before sundown.
Broussard and the Mexicana buried Fonseca as best they could under sand and loose rocks and then took to the dark trail south again. The gambler knew the odds and figured their chance of survival was slim to none and slim was already saddling up to leave town. The water would soon give out . . . and that would be the end.
Two hours later, they found Luna Talbot. Or the coyotes did.
* * *
The coyotes were yipping close to the walking men, skulking silver shapes in the moonlight, flickering in and out of the brush. Broussard thought it strange that the animals would come so near to them, men being the most dangerous of their traditional enemies. But he dismissed the coyotes from his mind and continued walking. But then the yips grew more frequent and excited and it was one of the young Mexicans who first heard the sound that did not come from an animal or an injured deer.
The man’s face puzzled, he said to Broussard, “Señor, es una mujer?”
Is it a woman?
The only woman who could be alone in the wilderness and cry out like that was Luna Talbot. But Brossard had thought her dead, killed by the Rathmores . . . or the desert. Could it really be her? The question struck him like a blow. Then he was running, charging into the murk, whooping like an Indian to scare away the coyotes.
In the gloom, he at first thought the dark shape on the ground was in fact a deer or some other animal, but as he ran closer he made out the unmistakable form of Luna Talbot. The woman sat upright, a small pistol in her hand.
She recognized him immediately. “What took you so long?”
Broussard kneeled beside her and said, “Are you all right?”
“Apart from being almost eaten by coyotes and stranded in the middle of a wasteland with a busted ankle, I’m just fine,” Luna said.
Broussard shook his head. “I thought you were dead.”
“Likewise. At least for a while there.”
Luna’s canteen was still over her shoulder and Broussard said, “Let me get you some water.”
“No, leave it,” she said. “Save the water for later when I really need it.”
“Then let me take a look at the ankle,” Broussard said. “I’ll need to take off your boot.”
“No, my ankle is too swollen.” She looked up at the gawking Mexicans and then said, “Mr. Broussard, you have a story to tell.”
“Yes, I do,” the gambler said. After a while he added, “The ankle is moving freely, and I don’t think it’s broken. It seems like you’ve got a sprain. How did it happen?”
“I stepped into a hole in the dark.”
Broussard smiled. “Careless of you.”
“Yes, wasn’t it?” Luna said. “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Broussard, but you look awful.”
“A few days without much water can do that to a man.”
“And to a woman. I look awful myself.’
“Mrs. Talbot, you could never look awful. Can you walk on the ankle?”
“If I could walk on it would I be sitting here getting attacked by a pack of man-eating coyotes?”
“Then I’ll have to carry you,” Broussard said.
“I could be very brave and tell you to leave me,” Luna said. “But I’m not brave.”
“You’re brave enough,” Broussard said. “Here, let me help you to your feet and we’ll go from there.”
He helped Luna stand and then said, “Now, can you put any weight on it?”
Luna tried and flinched in pain. “No, I can’t. I’m so sorry.”
“A turned ankle can happen to anybody,” Broussard said. “I’ll need to carry you.”
“All the way to my ranch?”
The gambler smiled. “No, not all the way. Chances are we’ll never make it that far.”
She said, “Now I feel much better.”
* * *
As Western men went, Arman Broussard was as strong as most, but he was grateful to share the carrying chores with several of the younger Mexicans. Despite years of poor food and backbreaking work, they managed Luna Talbot’s weight with ease.
But water was a problem.
Luna’s canteen was still half full but added to the little Broussard had remaining, it was not enough to keep ten people alive for very long.
They trudged through the night and into the next morning, when they each took a sip of water and settled down to sweat out the long, burning day. Hunger had begun to gnaw at them, but the Mexicans gathered piñon nuts that were surprisingly tasty and helped with the pangs.
Exhausted as they were, sleep turned out to be almost impossible as a rising wind blew stinging dust that covered everyone and made breathing difficult. After a couple of hours, the breeze dropped, and the heat returned with full force, making the surrounding landscape ripple. Luna Talbot’s sprained ankle was obviously punishing her, but she didn’t utter a word of complaint. Using her fingers, she combed the sand out of her hair, brushed off her shirt and riding skirt, trying to make herself presentable. Arman Broussard thought she looked just fine.
It was about two in the afternoon, the day a furnace set ablaze by the burning sun, when a dozing Broussard was shaken awake by one of the Mexicans. The man said nothing but pointed south where a dust cloud smeared the horizon like a dirty thumbprint. The gambler got to his feet. What the hell? Was it a party of Rangers? No, there weren’t enough Rangers in Texas to raise that much dust. A train of freight wagons maybe? That was possible.
“It’s a cattle herd,” Luna Talbot said, sitting up, shading her eyes with a hand. “Probably my cattle.”
“Why drive cows up here?” Broussard said.
“I don’t know,” Luna said. “But I reckon we’ll find out soon enough. Help me to my feet, Mr. Broussard.”
The gambler did as Luna asked and said, “Call me Arman, for God’s sake.”
“Hell of a name,” Luna said. “You must be the only man alive with a ten-dollar name like that. But I’ll call you Arman if you wish, and you may call me Luna.”
“I was once introduced to a dog named Luna,” Broussard said. “She was female, a real bitch.”
A half-smile played on the woman’s lips. “She was a fine dog then.”
Broussard shook his head, grinning. “Here we are bandying words with each other and, depending on who’s driving those cattle, we could be dead in a few minutes.”
“You mean rustlers?”
“Or worse.”
“I reckon we’ll soon—”
“Find out. I know.”
A moment later they heard the distant Pop! Pop! Pop! of guns, and the gambler said, “Sounds like somebody chasing rustlers all right.”
“That will be my segundo Leah Leighton and the Talbot hands,” Luna said. Worried, she bit her lip. “I never taught them how to handle a running gunfight.”
“I’m sure they know,” Broussard said. “Luna, if they’re anything like you, they know.”
The dust cloud came closer and riders and cattle were visible in the haze. The shooting became ragged and then died away into silence.
“I see her!” Luna said.
“See who?” Broussard said.
“Leah Leighton. That’s her paint mare with the white blanket. I’d recognize her anywhere.”
“Is she winning or losing?” Broussard said.
“She’s won, Arman. She’s carrying her rifle, and so are the others.”
“Can they see us?”
“I don’t know. We’re covered in sand,” Luna said. “Fire a couple of shots in the air.”
Broussard thumbed off two rounds and waited. The Mexicans were excited, waving their arms and letting out with dry, croaky yells.
Finally, Broussard saw clearly. The woman on the paint rode forward fifty yards and then drew rein. She put field glasses to her eyes and studied the terrain ahead. Four more rifle-toting riders emerged from the dust and joined her. The woman lowered the glasses, turned her head, and said something to the hands. Then they shook out into a skirmish line and come on at a walk, rifles at the ready.
“Careful gals, those,” Broussard said.
Luna nodded. “I taught them, and they learned.” She leaned on Broussard and waved. “Leah!”
The woman riding the paint stopped, took off her hat, and held it over her head, shading her eyes from the glaring sun.
“Leah!” Luna called out again, waving.
Leah Leighton recognized her boss and kicked her horse into a canter. The other woman followed. A few yards away, she reined the paint to a skidding halt and leaped from the saddle. She ran to Luna, and the two women embraced. Luna winced a little as her weight shifted to her injured ankle.
Horrified, Leah said, “Boss, you’re hurt.”
“Only a sprained ankle,” Luna said.
“But . . . but what happened?” Leah said, her pretty, sunburned face concerned. “What about the mine? Why are you here? Where are—”
“I’ll tell you later,” Luna said. “First, you tell me what happened? Those are my Herefords, aren’t they?”
“Rustlers,” Leah said. “They rounded up about fifty cows and drove them north. Eliza Holt was out checking the range and they shot her.”
Luna felt a jolt of alarm. “Is she . . .”
“She’s fine, boss. A bullet burned across the side of her head and knocked her out cold for a spell, but she got back on her horse and raised the alarm. She’s a flighty gal, is Eliza, but she’s got sand.”
“And then you went after the rustlers,” Luna prompted.
“Yes, five of them. We caught up with them, and there was a fight. We killed three and captured two others. I guess we’ll hang those two when we find a suitable tree.” Leah looked over Luna’s shoulder. “Where did you find all the Mexicans?”
“This gentleman here is Arman Broussard,” Luna said. “They belong to him.”
The gambler gave a little bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Leighton.”
“Likewise I’m sure.” Leah’s eyes moved from the handsome Broussard to Luna and then back again, obviously trying to make a connection.
Luna recognized the look and said, “Arman saved my life last night. But that’s for later. I’d like to talk to the two rustlers you caught . . . after we share your canteens, that is. We’re dying of thirst and pretty much used up.”
The Talbot hands shared their water and the beef jerky they’d packed in the event that the chase took them all the way to the New Mexico Territory and after Luna and the others were refreshed, she sat on a limestone rock shelf and ordered that the prisoners be brought forward.
They were an oddly matched pair, and Luna was surprised. The older of the two was a graybeard with tired, washed-out blue eyes, his companion a boy of about fourteen, tall and gangly and frightened. He kept his eyes on the Colt in Broussard’s waistband.
“You rustled my cattle,” Luna said. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I have nothing to say, lady. I saddle my own broncs and fight my own battles and I know what I done was wrong. But I needed money, and Billy Head showed me a way to get some.”
“Who is he?” Luna said.
“He’s one of the dead rustlers, boss,” Leah Leighton said. “Before he died, he gave me his name and asked if I’d tell his sister what had happened to him. He said she lives on the Pecos, down Cowbell Creek way.”
“We all lived on the Cowbell,” the old man said. “Me, Billy Head, Tom Battles, and John Hawke—all of them three are dead now. This boy’s name is Tim Meadows. He’s an orphan boy and he ain’t quite right. I’ve been taking care of him since he was six years old and I brought him with me. I reckon you’ll hang me as a cow thief, lady, but spare the boy. He didn’t know what he was doing, on account of the way he is, being slow an’ all.”
“Where were you taking my cattle?” Luna said.
“We figured to sell them in El Paso, lady.”
“Cattle prices are low this year,” Luna said. “Fifty head would bring you two thousand dollars. That means that four grown men risked their lives for five hundred dollars each. Mister, five hundred dollars isn’t worth dying for.’
“We were all poor folks down on the Cowbell, lady. Five hundred dollars is a fortune for the likes of us. You should know that Billy Head and them were never outlaws. Oh, when the young’uns were hungry they wasn’t above stealing a chicken or two, but they were not bandits.”
“And then they heard about my ranch,” Luna said. Her face was hard and the breeze tossed strands of hair across her face.
“Yes, a passing feller told Billy Head there was fat cattle for the taking,” the old man said. “Billy said we’d keep to lifting just fifty head because they wouldn’t be missed. Well, that’s what we done and then we were caught.” He shook his head in wonderment. “By some mighty sharpshooting ladies with Winchesters.”
The boy spoke for the first time. “Don’t hang us, ma’am. We didn’t mean no harm.”
“There’s an old cottonwood that stands alongside a dry creek bed near my ranch house,” Luna said. “Crows go there sometimes, especially when the tree grows dead men. A few weeks ago, if I’d caught you rustling my cattle I’d have hanged you both from the same branch and put I AM A RUSTLER placards around your necks. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” the old man said, his head drooping. He looked up, “But please, lady, I beg you, spare the boy.”
“However,” Luna said as though she hadn’t been listening, “the strange thing is that you and your fellow rustlers saved my life. I and all the men who you see standing here would have died of thirst long before we reached the Talbot. I’m sure of that.”
“That’s a natural fact,” Broussard said, nodding.
“Yes, thank you, Arman.” Luna looked at the old man. “I will not hang you or the boy. You are free to go. Leah, bring them their horses.”
Tears sprang into the old timer’s eyes. “Thank you, lady. And God bless you.” Then, his words tentative, “Can we have a spare horse? I’d like to take our dead back to the Cowbell for Christian burial.”
Luna smiled slightly. “Pushing it, aren’t you? What’s your name?”
“Owen Mollohan, lady. Man and boy, it’s been Owen Mollohan.”
“Leah, bring all five of the rustler horses,” Luna said. “They’re the only spare mounts we have.”
Broussard looked at her in surprise. “Spare mounts?”
“I need a horse and a gun,” Luna said. “The hands need to take the herd back, and I don’t want them riding double.”
“You’re not thinking about . . .”
“About heading back to the Cornudas? Yes, I am. No man abuses me and puts a slave rope around my neck and lives to boast of it. I have a score to settle with the fat man.”
“And I promised Buttons Muldoon and Red Ryan that I’d return,” Broussard said. “So make that two horses. What about your ankle?”
“It’s fine.”
“It hurts, I’m sure.”
“I can bear it. Anger helps numb the pain.”
The running gun battle had scattered the herd and the rustlers’ horses, and it took a good thirty minutes before a couple of punchers led the mounts to where Luna sat. She was less than impressed by the five hammer-headed mustangs with worn-out McClennan saddles on their backs and bridles held together with string. Poor men’s horses.
“Take your pick, Arman,” Luna said, smiling.
“Ladies first,” Broussard said, also smiling.
“The sorrel,” Luna said.
“Good choice.” Broussard stepped to a mouse-colored mare that must have weighed no more than eight hundred pounds and patted her neck. “I’ll take this one.” He turned to the old man. “The rest are yours.”
He and the Mexicans helped load the dead men onto the remaining horses and with Luna’s approval gave Mollohan a rifle. “Old-timer, don’t even think about taking up the rustling profession again,” Broussard said, “That cartridge sure don’t fit your pistol.”
“Mister, I’m done,” Mollohan said. “And so is the boy.”
He kneed his horse forward, him and the youngster, leading dead men east toward the Cowbell under a clear blue sky.
* * *
After Mollohan left, Luna Talbot said to Leah Leighton, “Who started the shooting?”
The woman seemed surprised, but said, “They did when they saw us coming after them.” Then after a pause for thought, “They weren’t very good.”
“They were rubes,” Luna said.
“Yes, boss, they were. Rubes with Winchesters, one with a Sharps fifty.”
Luna nodded and smiled slightly, “Yes, there is always that to consider.”
Guessing that Mrs. Talbot was suffering a pang of conscience, Leah said, “I would’ve preferred to have taken them alive, but they gave me no choice.”
“Of course, they didn’t,” Luna said. “You did the right thing.”
“Yes, boss,” Leah said. “I did.”
Luna accepted that last and ordered her segundo to send the hands back to the ranch with the herd. “But I want you with me, Leah. Where I’m headed I may need your fast gun.”
The woman didn’t even blink. “Tell me about it, boss.”
“We’re headed back to the Cornudas.”
“To the mine?” Leah said.
“Yes, to the mine.” Luna hesitated and then said, “It could be dangerous. If you want to leave with the herd, I’ll understand.”
“I ride for the brand,” Leah said. “I’ll stick.”