Jon stretched his arms to the ceiling as he sat up in bed late the next day. Shading his eyes from the late afternoon sun, he leaned across the bed and looked down at the hectic street scene below. Derby hats and bonnets bobbed as the folks went about their daily routines. A horse whinnied as a frustrated driver cracked his whip above the head of the anxious steed. A little boy in suspenders ran out of the drugstore waving a bag of jelly beans above his head, his blond hair blowing in the breeze. His parents beamed in delight.
After another quick stretch, Jon tossed his covers back, sat on the edge of the bed, and ran his fingers through his thick black hair as he stared at the wooden floor.
There was a hard knock on the door. Jon went for his gun.
“It’s Cliff, Jon. Open up.”
Jon stumbled over to the door, turned the lock and pushed it open. Cliff hurried in.
“Afternoon, bright eyes,” Cliff joked.
“Afternoon, cus,” Jon replied. “How late did you keep me out last night?”
“We played stud all night, my friend. Afterward, we grabbed a bite. Then I rode on out to the camps, and you wandered back to your room. How ya feelin’? You don’t look too good.”
“Not worth a damn, thank you.” Jon frowned. “How ‘bout you?”
“I’m rarin’ to go!”
“You make me sick.” Jon shook his head.
“You all right? You look a little down.”
“Yeah. I just been thinkin’ a little, I guess,” Jon replied.
“About the girl back in Arizona?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“About that promise?”
Jon grimaced. “I told her never again. And now here I am right in the middle of somethin’. I could have ridden on down the road to Vinegar Bend, but I didn’t.” Jon wrung his hands; his eyes went to the floor. “I guess I love the fight too much to give it up. It kind of bothers me.”
Cliff laid his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Things are gettin’ ugly around here, Jon. I wouldn’t blame ya if you just rode on outta here.”
“There’s one problem with that, partner,” Jon sighed.
Cliff’s eyes widened.
“I got nowhere to go. That snake Stanton’s got his foot planted right in the middle of that wine country. Can’t go there—he’d just be waitin’ on me. I guess I’m just gonna have to kill that bastard right here,” Jon growled.
Cliff looked at his tough friend. “What about Elizabeth?”
“Well, I ain’t no good to her dead, and the best way to stay alive is to hit these varmints head on.” He paused. “Sorry for the whining, Cliff.”
“Don’t think nothin’ about it. Hell, I been in love before. It kinda puts stars in your eyes.”
“Yeah, I guess it does.” Jon grinned. “Now get outta here so I can clean up a little.”
“Okay, partner, but there’s one more thing.”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“I saw Stanton’s black quarter horse along with several others lined up in front of the Dead End a few minutes ago. Looks like the boys are in town for a little fun.”
“Hmmm…ya don’t say. Hard tellin’ what they’re up to. Where are Ned and Malone?”
“I swung by Ned’s camp on the way into town. He said he was waitin’ on Malone and that they’d be in town shortly.”
“Good. I’ll meet you guys down at that café on the edge of town in half an hour. What’s it called?”
“Digger’s.”
“Yeah, I’ll meet ya at Digger’s.”
“Sounds good, Jon.” The door slammed as Cliff hurried out.
- - - - -
“Whoa! Whoa!” the smallish driver shouted as he leaned back and pulled hard on the leather reins. Dust flew as the Wells Fargo stage pulled to a stop. The metal brake squeaked as the stage ground to a standstill. The driver jumped down and began tossing bags up to his partner on top.
Jon stepped off of the boardwalk in front of Callahan’s. Hand above his eyes, he squinted toward the stage. Maggie came out of the shadows; she reached forward for the driver. She paused briefly, turned and looked over at Jon and then stepped up and disappeared into the cabin. The driver quickly closed the cabin door and hopped back to his seat. The whip cracked; the four steeds jumped forward as the stage rolled swiftly out of town.
Jon’s heart was heavy as he watched the stage disappear. He angrily kicked a tin can to the side of the road as he walked quickly toward Digger’s.
Digger’s was a small café in a rickety clapboard building on the edge of town. It was the favorite of the miners, vineyard workers, late night gamblers and occasional vaqueros who rode into town. The food was good, and Digger kept it open all night. The smell of steak and potatoes filled the air as Jon neared the busy eatery.
Suddenly, a horse rode up from behind. Startled, Jon jumped to the side to avoid the big steed as the rider pulled up. “Sorry to alarm you, Señor Stoudenmire, but you must come to the vineyard right away!”
Jon recognized the dark-skinned man from his trips to the vineyard. “What is it, Ignacio?”
“There is trouble, señor! Some men threatened Carlos at gunpoint. They say they are taking over the vineyards. He says they mean business—he need you to come out right away.”
“Damn them!” Jon shouted. “Tell Carlos I’ll be there pronto!”
“Sí, señor.” Ignacio spun in the street and charged out of town.
Jon pushed through the wobbly door at Digger’s, rushed inside and quickly scanned the room. Cliff and the boys were sitting at a table by the cash register talking to Digger. Jon hurried over.
“Sorry, men, I gotta go. There’s trouble out at the vineyard.”
“I’ll go with ya!” Cliff shouted.
“Thanks, partner, but you boys better stay here and keep an eye on Stanton and his gang. This is my problem.” Jon turned and hurried out the front door. Anger rose up inside of him as he ran to the nearby livery to pick up Babe for his unexpected trip to J S Winery. Probably Delgado and his men, he thought as he approached the stables.
- - - - -
Cliff’s eyes narrowed as he glanced over at the other men. “Somethin’ don’t smell right, boys.”
“Yeah, I agree,” Ned replied. “Let’s get after him.”
“Hold the steaks, Digger. We’ll be back later on,” Cliff shouted.
“I’ll bet,” the friendly owner replied. “Oh well, the boys from the Triple X will be in ‘fore long. They’ll eat ‘em.”
The three men pushed back from the table and headed for the cash register as the sound of Babe’s powerful hooves went thundering past.
“Coffee’s on me!” Digger shouted. “Get after him!”
Cliff tipped his hat as the men hurried out, mounted up and raced after Jon.
- - - - -
“Here come Ignacio!” Paco exclaimed as he stepped out to the trail. “The gringo won’t be too far behind.”
Ignacio’s horse pranced on the trail as he pulled up and spoke to Paco. “I tell him. He should be here any minute, Paco. He seem very upset.”
“Muchas gracias, amigo!” a smiling Delgado replied.
Ignacio nodded as he spurred his horse forward and raced down the trail to the J S Winery.
Paco jumped back behind the large oak tree and cocked his rifle. “We must be still, boys. He be here soon.”
Paco glanced at Arturo, a crack shot and just a few yards to his right. “You ready, Arturo?”
“Sí. I have a clear shot from here.” The nasty bandito spit on the ground as he glared at the well-traveled path some hundred yards away. The path wound between some large rocks before dropping into the wooded area bordering the stream.
“You the best,” Paco barked at Arturo.
“Oh, you flatter me, mi amigo.” Arturo grinned at his brutal boss.
The savvy leader glanced behind the tree to his right at Buck Johnson; he looked across the trail as his other two men found hiding places in the thick brush.
Suddenly Johnson raised his hand. “Quiet! I hear something!” He quickly leveled his rifle for a shot.
Paco looked ahead as a rider appeared on the horizon; dust flew as his charger bounded down the trail toward the woods and the waiting ambush.
“Hold fire until he close enough,” Paco mumbled as the rider drew near.
“Palomino!” Arturo exclaimed as he jerked his rifle to shoulder level and took dead aim. “It’s him!” He squeezed the trigger; a powerful blast echoed through the woods.
Several more rifle shots rang out. The deafening sounds reverberated through the trees. The palomino reared up as the hot lead blew into the rider’s body, blasting him off of the frightened steed. He dropped behind some nearby rocks and disappeared. The shooters watched anxiously and waited. After a few seconds, the body rolled slowly back to the rutted trail. The rider’s arms dropped to his side; his head fell still. Yellow flames shot from Paco’s rifle as he took a final shot. The lifeless body jerked.
“He look dead,” Paco shouted. “Let’s go finish him off, just in case!” Paco jumped out from behind the tree and raced down the path toward the body. He stopped suddenly and raised his hand. “I hear horses,” he cried. Running close behind, the other men stopped.
Three dark figures on horseback rode over the horizon. One of them was huge.
As they raced closer, Johnson shouted out, “That’s Stone’s painted sorrel, and the big man must be Ned Sloan! Let’s get outta here—those boys can shoot!”
Several loud rifle shots rang out from the rapidly approaching riders as the men scurried back to the woods for cover. Flying lead whizzed by their heads; a small limb snapped above Paco’s head. “Asshole!” he mumbled. Nearby, one of the men screamed and dropped to the ground. He rolled to his back and fell still, blood oozing from his chest. Johnson dropped down, cradled the man in his arms and lifted him. Dodging bullets, he carried the body over and laid it across the man’s horse. He grabbed the reins and quickly wound the leather around his saddle horn and mounted up.
“They trying to keel all of us!” Paco bellowed as he leapt on his steed.
“Let’s get to the stream and ride to my place!” Johnson yelled.
“Sí, amigo! Lead the way!” Paco shouted as he ducked under a large limb.
“Uhggg!” one of the men screamed as he slumped in the saddle; his steed ran on with the rider’s head bobbing from side to side.
“They hit Diego!” Arturo screamed. He slowed up and frantically grabbed the reins of the wounded man’s horse. Ducking bullets, he led him into the stream.
- - - - -
Cliff saw the body lying next to the trail, reined up and quickly dismounted. “My God, it’s Jon, and he’s been hit!” he cried as he hopped down on the rocky path. His knee hit the ground next to Jon’s still body.
“How is he?” Malone yelled as he rode up, rifle smoking.
“Don’t know.” Cliff slid his hand under Jon’s head. The front of his shirt was soaked red; a puddle of blood had formed in his ear from a head wound. Cliff gently lifted his motionless body. “Jon! Jon!” he shouted. Tears welled in the hard man’s eyes.
Returning after giving a brief chase, Sloan shouted out, “They went into the stream, I lost—” He stopped mid-sentence as he glanced down at Jon’s crumbled body. “What the hell!” he exclaimed. “He looks….uh.”
Malone interrupted. “Dead! Those bastards killed him!”
- - - - -
Paco, Buck Johnson and the banditos struggled up the muddy bank of the stream. “This way,” Buck shouted as they spurred their steeds forward toward the secret hideaway. They raced ahead, winding through several miles of narrow trails and thick woods. Suddenly, Buck’s hand shot up as he reined up on the edge of a clearing. A small, grassy valley opened up below. The men pulled alongside him and gazed down at the tranquil scene. Eyes wide, they looked at the rustic log cabin nestled against a knoll on the far side of the vale; a stack of freshly chopped wood lay against the side of the cabin. Nearby, two goats grazed lazily on the valley’s grassy floor. A milking cow in a nearby fenced area stared quietly at the men. Light reflected off of a small pond behind the cabin and filtered through a stand of tall birch trees.
“We’re here,” Buck announced. He spurred his horse gently forward. The others followed as he dropped down the steep, narrow trail into the valley. The horses’ hooves sank into the muddy ground as the men reached the basin’s floor and rode toward the cabin.
“I been watching Diego. He die on the way.” A somber Arturo frowned as the men reached the cabin and dismounted.
Paco glanced over at the dead man’s body dangling over the horse’s neck. “Poor Diego,” he said quietly. “Take him and our friend Alejo and bury them on the hill on the other side of that pond. Dig deep so the animals can’t dig them up and eat them,” he ordered.
Johnson dismounted and stepped over to a nearby shed. He reached inside, grabbed a shovel and tossed it to Arturo. A surprised Arturo snatched the shovel from the air and sneered at Buck. His expression slowly calmed as he led the dead men’s horses down the path to the pond.
“Come in,” Buck said as he walked over and pushed the front door open. Paco’s large white sombrero bumped the side of the door as he followed Stanton’s right hand man inside. The cabin’s main room was neat and well kept. A large stone fireplace filled the south end of the room. A wooden table surrounded by six chairs sat in the middle, and several large oranges filled a clay bowl on top. Two closed doors at the far end of the room piqued Paco’s curiosity.
“Bedrooms,” an observant Buck announced.
Paco nodded. “Nice casa, señor. Why you keep your beautiful place such a secret?”
Buck’s eyes narrowed at the probing question. “There’s a reason. How about a drink and I’ll tell ya about it?” he replied.
“You have a way with words, mi amigo,” Paco laughed as he slid a wooden chair out and plopped down.
The metal cups clanked as Buck set them on the table. “Whiskey okay?” he asked as he pulled open the door to a small cabinet.
“Sí, Señor Johnson. Whiskey is fine.”
Buck pulled a large brown bottle from the cabinet, bit down on the cork and yanked it free. Reaching forward, he poured the brown liquid in the cups. Lifting his cup, he took a sip and reluctantly began to answer Paco’s personal question about the cabin. “George and I thought it might be a good idea to have a place to go if things ever got too hot in town. So he asked me to find a secluded place, and I did. I bought this spread from a retired army colonel a couple of years ago. Even George hasn’t been out here.”
“So…nobody know where you live?”
“Not a soul. Most folks think I live at Stanton’s compound. I stay there so often, they don’t know the difference.” Buck’s head tipped back as he emptied the tin cup and quickly filled it again.
“Nice little plan you boys have,” Paco said as his thin lips turned up in a nasty grin.
All of a sudden, a weak, almost inaudible voice could be heard coming from one of the bedrooms. The words were slurred and hard to understand.
“Someone here?’’ a startled Paco asked.
“Yes…just a minute,” Buck answered as he hurried over, yanked the ladle off of the hook and quickly dipped it into a bucket of water. The water splashed over the sides of the ladle as he rushed to the bedroom. After several minutes, Buck stepped out and shut the door. He looked over at a bewildered Paco.
“It’s my son. He’s been terribly injured; I need to take him to the hospital in Santa Cruz, but his treatments will cost nearly a grand, and I don’t have it.”
“What happen to him?” Paco asked.
Buck winced at the direct question, once again taken aback by the aggressive bandito. He gritted his teeth and answered, “Some cowards jumped him out on the trail, they beat him senseless and left him for dead. Some Pauma Indians found him and took him to a nearby trading post. An old friend brought him here. If it weren’t for those Injuns, he’d be dead.”
“That not good.” Paco took a sip of his whiskey. “How old your son?”
“Twenty-two.”
“He talk kind of funny, it kind of sad.” Paco chuckled nervously.
Buck glared at the heartless man. He gulped down another cup of whiskey and refilled it. “More?” He lifted the bottle toward Paco.
“No, gracias.”
Buck stepped over near the door, cracked it open and looked out toward the pond. “The boys should be finishin’ up soon,” he said calmly.
“I think so,” Paco replied. “I have a son also, señor. I very proud of him,” he continued.
“I’ll bet you are.” Buck’s head tipped back as he drank the cup dry; dust flew as he set it on a nearby windowsill. He grabbed a leather strap from a hook on the back of the door and turned toward the table. Paco’s white sombrero hung down his back.
“I’m very proud of my son also, Paco.”
“That good that you proud of your son. Hope he live.”
Buck wound the leather strap around his hands and moved toward the table. “I think you may know my son,” he said softly.
“Oh no, I don’t think so, señor!” Paco replied quickly. “How would I ever know your son?”
“Oh, I think you do, my friend! He’s a ranger from down your way. Jim Johnson’s his name—ring a bell?”
A wide-eyed Paco tried to jump up as he grabbed for his six gun.
Buck’s hands flew over the back of Delgado’s head; the leather snapped tight and locked on the frantic man’s thick neck before he could rise. Buck twisted the noose tight and yanked with all his strength. The leather dug into the nasty man’s neck as he yanked him side to side. Paco groaned, fighting for all he was worth. Buck pulled harder on the leather strap, lifting the gagging bandito off the chair. Paco’s six gun fell to the floor as he pawed frantically at the strap. Buck yanked harder and harder, the back of Paco’s body pushed into him. He was gasping desperately for breath. Incensed, Buck jerked harder, throwing the dying man’s body from left to right and at times lifting him off of the floor. “I been waitin’ for this, you rotten bastard!” he growled quietly so as not to alert the other men. He squeezed tighter and tighter on the straps until Delgado’s thick body fell limp, arms dangling to his side. There was no sign of life. Paco’s head jerked as an incensed Buck yanked several more times to be certain of death. Exhausted, Buck dragged him over and dropped him on the chair; he slid the bloody strap off of his neck. There was a thud as Paco’s head crashed to the table.
His heart racing and sweating profusely, Buck ran for the corner of the room, grabbed his Winchester and yanked the drawer open on a nearby table. He grabbed a handful of cartridges and quickly crammed them in the barrel. He hurried across the room, placed his metal gun barrel against the bottom of the windowsill and pushed the window up. He lifted a wood rod off of the frame and used it to brace the window open. The path to the pond was in clear view from this window. Beads of sweat covered his forehead as he peered at the scene outside. Shaking badly, he struggled to calm himself. Suddenly, he heard voices in the thicket near the pond area. His heart pounded as he carefully lifted the rifle to his shoulder and pushed the end of the barrel out the window. A crack shot, he watched as the men came into clear view. His hands stopped shaking. His eyes widened as the men entered the clearing, suddenly an unexpected calm came over the former freedom fighter. He leaned down and slid the barrel a little further out the window. He took dead aim and squeezed the trigger. Flames shot from the barrel. Startled by the sound, Arturo glanced toward the cabin as the hot lead blasted into his chest. He flew violently back against some thick bushes, bounced off and fell face down on the path. Not hesitating, Buck squeezed off two more shots. The sounds echoed through the surrounding trees as the second man screamed and dropped to the ground, hands covering his face as he rolled from side to side. Buck shot again; the man fell still. He moved the barrel back toward the motionless Arturo and pulled the trigger. The lifeless body jerked from the force of the blast.
Wide-eyed and excited, Buck slid the gun off of the windowsill and charged toward the door. He knocked it open with the butt of his gun and bolted down the hill toward the pond. Panting, he was almost out of breath when he reached the two bodies. He stood over the fallen men, surveying the carnage. Arturo, lying face down, showed no signs of life. The first bullet had gone clear through him. The back of his white cotton shirt had turned red with blood. Buck looked at the other man. He was lying on his side, motionless. He poked him with his gun barrel, and the man fell to his back. Blood streamed out of his mouth as his brown eyes stared blankly at the sky.
Certain they were dead, Buck ran quickly to the stable, unhitched the gate, rushed in and snatched a yoke from a fencepost. An anxious mare pranced nearby. Buck tossed the yoke on the horse’s neck, led her through the gate and strapped her to a nearby wagon. He moved to the side of the wagon, untied a canvas roll and spread it on the bed. Horse and wagon in tow, he rushed back to the dead men. His stomach sickened as he lifted the bloody men and laid them on the canvas. He led the horse and wagon to the cabin, pushed the cabin door open, hurried inside and draped his arms around the limp body of Delgado. He was shaking horribly as he struggled to drag the stocky man out of the cabin and put him in the back of the wagon.
My God what have I done? he thought as he pushed the gate closed and snapped the swivel hook into the eyelet. His shirt dripped sweat as he gathered up the men’s horses and tied them to the back of the wagon. He stopped for a moment to listen—he could hear sobbing coming from Jim’s room. He hurried inside and rushed to his bedroom. He knelt down next to the bed and laid his shaking hand on his son’s fractured body. “It’s okay, son. I was just takin’ a little target practice. Everything’s okay now. Just try and rest.”
The young man garbled out a few words. “Ya…ya okay, dad?”
“I’m fine, son. Now go to sleep.” He squeezed his son’s hand tenderly. The boy fell quiet; his chest heaved as tears rolled down his face, horribly disfigured by Delgado’s torture.
Buck patted the boy’s arm, jumped up, carefully closed the door behind him, hurried outside and jumped aboard the wagon. He cracked the leather whip, and the wagon jerked forward.
Buck bounced in the wood seat as he wound deeper and deeper into the thick woods. After several miles, he reined up and surveyed the scene ahead. A large rocky knoll jutted up from the forest floor. “We’re here,” he whispered as he rode forward.
Buck ducked and pushed the brush aside as wove his way around the knoll. He pulled up in a small wash area on the backside of the rocky hill. He covered his eyes from the sun as he looked up the steep incline. He smiled when he saw the heart-shaped rock at the top. He hopped down. The wood gate rattled as he pulled it open and yanked Paco’s body out of the wagon. The muscles on his forearms bulged as he fought to drag the stocky body of Delgado up the rocky incline. The brush is thicker than I expected, he thought as he paused and scanned the rocks. He peered over a round boulder nearby and there it was—a small opening in the middle of a group of rocks. He grabbed the shirt collar of the dead man and dragged him around the rock and into the hole. After crawling several feet, his hand could feel an opening ahead. He reached inside the familiar opening and grabbed a kerosene lantern from a ledge. He reached in his jean pocket and pulled out a match. He struck the match along a rock; it exploded into flame as he reached forward and lit the lantern. The yellow light illuminated the walls of the cavern. He jumped down to the cavern floor and dragged the body across to another small opening. He crawled inside the passageway, lugging Paco behind. After a few minutes, cool air from a dark hole struck his face. This was what he was looking for. He struggled to pull Paco’s body past him in the narrow passageway and push it into the eerie hole. It seemed like forever before he heard the thud of the body hitting the bottom of the deep, dark crevice.
Arms weary, Buck pushed back through the passageway and into the cavern. He hurried across the cavern and crawled through the narrow entryway and down the rocky hill to the wagon. Exhausted, he forced himself to go on. “Two more,” he murmured. The ritual repeated itself until all three bodies, saddles, blankets and the bloody canvas had been carried up the rocky hill, dragged through the cavern and dropped into the deep hole at the end of the narrow opening on the other side.
“Ain’t nobody gonna find them,” he whispered. Totally exhausted, Buck rolled a small round rock into the hole in the wall and then stacked several more on top. He quickly wiped the dirt from the bottom side of the rocks so they didn’t look freshly moved. He brushed his hands together, climbed down the rocky incline and struggled up to the wagon seat.
“Hiya,” he said weakly. The wagon and trailing horses meandered back around the rocky, tree-covered knoll, traveling on until open prairie showed ahead. Once in the clearing, Buck hopped down, yanked off his hat and untied the bandits’ ponies.
“Get! Get!” he shouted as he smacked their behinds with the hat. The frightened steeds raced out to the open prairie, their manes flowing in the breeze. Off in the distance, Buck could hear a thundering herd of wild horses.
A hard breeze from the prairie cooled Buck’s hot, sweaty face as he stood watching the horses gallop across the beautiful grassland. His heart was heavy as he stood shaking in the dimming sunlight. He had gotten revenge for his son’s torture all right, but at what price? Not a violent man by nature, he had not killed since his fighting days against Santa Anna in Texas. Yet today he had violently strangled a Mexican legend to death and had blasted his two unsuspecting accomplices to the heavens. It sickened him. He was distraught. His tired body began to shake violently, cold chills rushed through his body, his gut pushed up to his throat. He grabbed desperately for the side of the wagon as his head flew down. Bits of bacon and yellow bile blasted on the dirt trail as he heaved violently again and again. His body shook uncontrollably as he continued to extricate the remnants of the day. After several minutes of sobbing, with the smelly bile dripping from his chin, he dropped to his knees, his red, watery eyes pointing to the heavens. “Forgive me God, please forgive me!” he wailed.