THE RIO GRANDE was wide, green and shallow and Azul splashed through the sluggish water without breaking the pony’s stride. He had been following Nolan’s trail for two days since the burning of Jamesville, reading the signs inscribed on the Mexican sand as another man might read a book.
The scalp hunters had ridden straight into a village called Barrerra, gunned down a local rancher and helped themselves to the pick of his horses. They had never had any intention of coming back for Luis.
After Barrerra, they had headed straight for the American border, riding hard and fast, like men with a posse on their tails. Azul would have caught up with them were it not for the norther blowing out their tracks; the wind had meant guesswork and questions where pure trail craft would have been faster, but the result was the same.
The scalp hunters were running for the safety of the United States.
He pulled his horse to a stop on the American side of the river and dismounted. Drawing the knife from his belt, he knelt down, using the water as a mirror while he hacked his hair down to a more manageable length. He washed and set the flat-brimmed hat on his head, trusting in his father’s blood to let him pass for white. Then he climbed into the saddle and struck north. The nearest town was Piedras Negras, a sprawling hell-hole that spanned both sides of the border, like a scar across the Rio Grande. It was wide-open, with a minimum of law and a population made up mostly of men born under different names to those they might give to anyone foolish enough to ask. It was the kind of place Nolan and his companions would make for.
Azul reached it around dusk. He heard it first, the tinny rattling of cheap pianos and the occasional crack of a gun echoing through the twilight. He breasted a ridge leading down to the river and saw the place, lights burning yellow in the saloons, red in the whorehouses. As he rode closer he smelt the fetid odor of unwashed bodies and greasy food, unfed dogs snapped around the mustang’s legs and the odd drunk staggered blearily across his path.
Azul grimaced and rode on in, his eyes scanning the busy streets for sign of his quarry.
It would be pure luck if he spotted Nolan and the others amongst the crowds of cowboys, traders and men with no particular profession who filled the packed-dirt streets of Piedras, but he wasn’t about to reject even the faintest chance. Luck, however, failed to smile on him and instead of the scalp hunters, he saw a squad of Federales tacking posters on walls all over the Mexican side of town.
Prominent beneath the Wanted heading was a crude, but unmistakable portrait. It showed a coldly handsome face, wide cheekbones and deep-set eyes framed by a mane of long hair. Under the drawing, his name was printed in heavy black letters: Azul alias Matthew Gunn. A brief description was followed by another line of heavy type offering a reward of one hundred and fifty dollars American.
Azul snorted in disgust: he felt he was worth more.
He rode on, past the busy Federales, sending one trooper scrambling out of his path with a muttered curse about hurrying gringos. As the man jumped clear, Azul noticed an officer watching him from the sidewalk. He grinned, raising a hand in casual salute; Capitan Vega touched a gloved fist to his cap in reply, staring incuriously at the unknown rider.
Azul crossed over to the American side and located a rooming house. He tossed one of Padillo’s dollars to a boy standing by the door and arranged for his horse to be stabled and fed, then he went in to book a room and a bath.
Contrary to the popular American misconception, the Apaches were a remarkably clean people, availing themselves of water whenever there was enough left over from the drinking supply. Azul spent a good hour in the tub, luxuriating in die rare pleasure of steaming water and gritty soap. He scrubbed hard, rubbing the travel dust from his skin, then sluiced his body with cold water and dressed.
He found an eatery nearby and settled down to a big steak sided by potatoes and greens. It made a pleasant change from the peppery Mexican food and the mainly vegetarian diet of the Indians.
Three cups of black coffee later, he went looking for Nolan and his men.
The majority of the buildings in Piedras were saloons, most of the others contained whores or the kind of hardware a man carries on his hip. Azul chose to check the bars first; and came up with nothing. Reluctantly, he was forced to admit to himself that the men he hunted could be anywhere, and the town was big enough to let them go on missing him. He sipped slowly on a whisky that tasted distinctly homebrewed while he thought about his next move.
An idea came in behind a badge. The man wearing it was tall and weather-marked, as though he spent most of his life out of doors. The badge marked him for a Texas Ranger.
Azul took a chance that the wanted posters had stayed on the Mexican side and went up to the man. Ten minutes later he was waiting in the front office of the Ranger barracks, describing Nolan, Christie and Manolo.
Four buildings away, in a saloon boasting the grandiose title of the Imperial Palace, Nolan glared into his glass.
Christie and Manolo kept quiet, content to enjoy their drinks and let their leader work off the black mood that had possessed him since Jamesville. They had left the town without a backward glance at Luis, sheltered from the norther in an overhung draw, and then ridden on to Barrerra. Fresh mounted, they had followed Nolan’s taciturn lead to the border, crossed the river and settled down to enjoy themselves in the law-free fleshpots of Piedras Negras.
The proximity of the Ranger station did not worry them. Their crimes were committed south of the Rio Grande and, anyway, there weren’t too many Americans who would complain about the lifting of Apache scalps. They felt safe. If the breed did find them, he’d face three guns, and there was safety in numbers.
‘What’s our next move?’ Christie broke the silence.
‘We head for the Guadalupe range,’ grunted Nolan, ‘I heard there’s a whole passel of scalps up there, ready fer the takin’. Figger to stay out of Mexico fer a while.’
Christie nodded without speaking. It seemed like a good idea to him; the prickly feeling he got along his spine came back whenever he thought about Azul and the killings south of the border.
‘When do we leave?’ Manolo seemed anxious to make it soon.
‘Tomorrow.’ Nolan smiled for the first time in three days. ‘After I conclude some business.’
He stood up, tossing off his drink and walking out in silence, leaving the others wondering what he meant.
The next morning, Azul returned to the Ranger station. It was a small post, garrisoned by ten men, seven of them out on patrol duty. The three left were lounging around the office when he came in, leafing through a stack of dodgers, laughing as they recognized men they knew.
The sergeant in charge looked up, the smile freezing on his face as he saw Azul.
‘Mr. Gunn.’ He said it too carefully for comfort. ‘Those men you asked about. We heard of them.’
Azul was aware of the two Rangers fanning out to either side of the desk, sensing danger in their overly-cautious movements.
‘Yeah?’ He took off his hat, using it to cover his right hand as he slipped the safety thong loose from the hammer of his gun. ‘Are they here?’
‘Nope.’ The Ranger was keeping his hands under the desk. ‘They rode out come sun-up.’
‘To where?’ Azul stood just inside the door, noting the way the Ranger’s hands hung close to their Colts.
‘Said they was headin’ fer the Guadalupes.’ The man pushed his chair back, as though stretching his legs.
‘Thanks,’ murmured Azul, ‘I guess I’ll go after them.’ He turned slightly towards the door.
‘Guess not, Gunn.’ The sergeant stood up fast, levelling a cocked Colt on Azul’s stomach. ‘They told us about you. One-fifty dollars ain’t much, but it buys whisky.’
Azul drew as he fell sideways, feeling the Ranger’s bullet tear cloth from his left sleeve. He triggered his own gun as he hit the floor, rolling so that the troopers’ shots went wild.
The sergeant stood rock-steady behind the desk, staring at Azul as the half-breed put a bullet through the shoulder of the man on his right and swung his revolver to cover the third Ranger.
‘Drop it!’ His voice cracked through the suddenly-quiet room and the man obeyed, looking over at his moaning partner. ‘You too, Sergeant.’
The officer obeyed, opening his hand so that the Colt clattered on the floor.
‘You won’t get far,’ he said slowly, ‘not after killin’ a Texas Ranger.’
‘Who killed a Ranger?’ Azul asked, covering all three men.
‘You,’ said the sergeant.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but only blood came out, splashing across the wanted posters on the desk. He grunted and pitched abruptly forwards, bending over from the waist as he collapsed to expose the gaping hole in the small of his back.
‘Shit.’ The unwounded Ranger spoke for the first time, disbelief shining bright in his eyes. ‘You killed Clancy.’
‘He drew first,’ replied Azul coldly. ‘Now let’s get in back.’
He herded the two men to the cells behind the office and locked them in, ignoring the groans of the wounded man. Then he tossed the keys into a desk drawer and walked out, closing the outer door behind him. A cowboy watched curiously as he came out.
‘What’s happening?’ The man was bored, hoping for excitement. ‘Sounds like things are hottin’ up.’
‘Could be,’ said Azul quietly, ‘it’s an old town, so why not wait until tonight?’
He walked away to collect his horse.
As the crow flies, the Guadalupe Mountains are three hundred-odd miles northwest of Piedras Negras. A man heading straight for the range would travel north up the Rio Grande to Sanderson, skirting the foothills of the Sierra del Carmen to cut a line between Forts Stockton and Davis, pick up supplies at Toyah and then climb into the lonely fastnesses of New Mexico.
He wouldn’t see much on his journey, because the country is wild, rocky and dangerous and very few people choose to live there.
The Apaches built their rancherias there for that very reason: it was their land, and they got left alone in it.
That was the way Azul headed.
He collected what little gear he carried from his room and went down to the stable. The horse with the big Sonora saddle was long gone, running wild from the blaze of Jamesville, so he rode the way he preferred: on an Indian pad saddle. He had his Colt, the Winchester and the two knives. Sufficient cartridges to see him through, and food available along the way.
Most of all, he had a gut full of hate that drove him nor towards as surely as a tumbleweed blown by el aquilon. The blood oath he had made to his dead parents needed the satisfying: wherever Nolan, Christie and Manolo went, Azul would not be far behind.
Blood cried out for blood, and the man known as Azul to the Apaches, Matthew Gunn to others, would take that blood in full measure.
Unsmiling, he rode the paint pony away from Piedras Negras on the next step in his lonely hunt.