Ambush at Shadow Valley

Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack stepped down from his horse in the middle of the empty dirt street in Valle Hermoso. He pulled his sawed-off shotgun from beneath the bedroll behind his saddle and let the reins fall to the ground. His Appaloosa stallion, Black Pot, stood firm as if he’d been hitched to a post. In the dirt lay two dead men: One, an elderly Mexican, wore a tin badge and a threadbare Confederate cavalry tunic; the other wore the range clothes of a vaquero. A few feet from the bodies a long smear of blood and drag marks led to the blanket-draped doorway of the Gato Negro Cantina a block away.

A voice called out in English from behind the cover of a mule cart a few yards away, ‘‘One of our vaqueros had the guts to nail one of them afore the other three gunned him down.’’

The ranger only nodded, walking on along the middle of the street as a shot rang out through the glassless window of the cantina. As he neared the town well, he saw a young Mexican crouched down with a Winchester repeating rifle in his hands. Sam raised a gloved hand in a show of peace when the young man swung the Winchester toward him.

With a look of relief, the young Mexican waved the ranger toward the cover of the low stone wall surrounding the well. ‘‘Are you hunting for these men?’’ the Mexican asked in stiff English, seeing the badge on the ranger’s vest as Sam hurried in and crouched beside him.

‘‘Yes,’’ said Sam. He studied the blanketed doorway, then the small window where gun smoke wafted in. ‘‘They’re all four murderers. They broke prison in Yuma. I’ve been on their trail over a week. At daylight this morning I found one of their horses limping alongside the trail. I figured they’d be coming here for fresh horses.’’

"Sí, it was for horses they came, and it was for horses that my brother, Ramon, and the village guardia died,’’ the young man said with regret.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ said Sam, realizing he had pushed these desperate killers in this direction. ‘‘I got here as fast as I could.’’

‘‘No, not fast enough,’’ Sam replied. He didn’t flinch as another shot exploded from the window. ‘‘I’m figuring the others are gone. This one they left behind because he’s badly wounded?’’ he asked, as if already knowing the answer.

The young Mexican only nodded. ‘‘My brother, Ramon, was courageous. He fought back when they tried to ride away on his horse.’’ He saw the questioning look in the ranger’s eyes and added, ‘‘When I heard the gunshots, I came running. But like you, I was also too late to save my brother’s life.’’

Sam detected bitterness in the young man’s words, but he wasn’t sure where it was directed. ‘‘All right,’’ he said, getting down to the matter at hand. ‘‘I’m going to see who’s in there and try to end this.’’

The young man nodded and showed Sam the Winchester in his hands. ‘‘I will back your play,’’ he said, as if using a term he had only heard that lawmen like the ranger might use. ‘‘I have the rifle this one dropped when my brother shot him. I fired upon them as they rode away. I think I hit one.’’

‘‘Good for you,’’ Sam said sincerely. Turning his attention back to the window he called out, ‘‘This is Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack. Who’s in there?’’

‘‘It’s Dick Hirsh, you damned lawdog!’’ a voice called out, followed by a pistol shot that thumped into the stone wall. ‘‘You want me, come in and get me!’’ Another shot exploded. ‘‘I’m all alone in here. It’ll be just you and me!’’

The ranger shook his head, then called out, ‘‘How bad are you bleeding, Hirsh? I see a lot of you smeared along the dirt out here.’’

‘‘Not bad enough,’’ Hirsh said with a dark laugh that lapsed into a deep, rattling cough. ‘‘I got . . . enough grit left . . . to kill half a dozen like you, Ranger!’’

The young Mexican beside Sam said, ‘‘I will go in and get him for you, Ranger, to avenge my brother, Ramon.’’ He started to move away in a crouch, but Sam stopped him by blocking his way around the well wall.

‘‘Wait,’’ Sam said, keeping his eyes on the blanketed cantina doorway. From the amount of blood along the ground he knew that the outlaw would soon bleed out. ‘‘Let’s give him a couple minutes.’’

‘‘I can see you’re not,’’ Sam said. He turned his face to the Mexican long enough to look the serious young man up and down. ‘‘What’s your name?’’ he asked, hoping to stall him long enough to let his anger wane.

‘‘I am Hector Sandoval,’’ the young man said. He gestured a hand toward where his brother’s body lay in the dirt. ‘‘Always Ramon and I are known as the Sandoval brothers. Now there is only me. Ramon’s death leaves only me to carry on our father’s name.’’ He glared with hatred toward the cantina.

Seeing that he still teetered on the edge of making a run toward the cantina, Sam said, ‘‘I understand how you feel, but before you go charging in, let me see if I can get him to throw out his gun and come out on his own.’’

‘‘That’s true. I have no jurisdiction here,’’ Sam replied. Thinking quickly he added, ‘‘But if I can talk to him, he might give me an idea where the others are headed. If I don’t catch them, they will have gotten away with killing your brother. You’ll never see them again.’’

‘‘Will I ever see them again anyway?’’ Hector asked pointedly. ‘‘If you catch them and bring them through here on your way back to the border, will you allow me to do to them what I must to avenge my brother?’’

‘‘No,’’ Sam said, ‘‘I can’t promise I’ll bring them through here. But you have my word that I won’t stop until they’re all either dead or headed back to prison. That’s all I’ve got for you.’’

Considering the ranger’s words, Hector let out a tense breath. ‘‘At least you did not lie to me the way I have come to expect you gring—’’ He caught and corrected himself quickly. ‘‘I mean, the way I have come to expect you americanos to do.’’

‘‘I’ve got no reason to lie to you, Hector,’’ Sam said quietly, watching the blanketed cantina door. ‘‘I’m here to do my job, nothing else.’’

"Sí, do your job,’’ said Hector, nodding. ‘‘Talk to this killer and see what you can find out from him before he dies choking on his own blood.’’ Hector spit on the ground in disgust.

Sam had no idea if the young Mexican’s disgust was aimed at him, at the system of law he worked for or at the universe in general, but he had no time to think about it now. From up the street a small gathering of men had ventured out of hiding and began walking cautiously toward the well. They carried shotguns, pitchforks and ancient, wooden-stocked flintlock pistols. Leading them were the elderly American who’d called out to the ranger earlier, and an old mineral surveyor named Simon Gates. He carried a coiled rope at his side and slapped it angrily against his thigh as he walked.

The ranger used the townsmen as a reason to call out again to the trapped and wounded outlaw. ‘‘Hirsh, they’re coming for you, rope coiled and ready. I can’t stop them, unless I take you into custody.’’

No response came from inside the cantina. After waiting for a moment, Sam said, ‘‘Hirsh? Do you hear me in there?’’

A single gunshot exploded, not from the window but from deeper inside the cantina. The sound stopped the advancing villagers and sent a few of them scrambling to the side. Hector asked the ranger, ‘‘Did he shoot himself?’’

‘‘Men like Hirsh don’t stop until they’re dead, Hector,’’ Sam said, seeing that the young man had no lack of courage, but seemed to have no savvy about men like Dick Hirsh. ‘‘The prospect of taking a couple more lives might be all that’s keeping him hanging on.’’

‘‘Then he is not a man at all, but a devil,’’ said Hector. He stopped himself from instinctively making a sign of the cross on his chest. ‘‘All of his kind must be stopped.’’

‘‘Now you’re talking,’’ Sam said wryly. ‘‘Keep everybody back while I get inside.’’ Without another word on the matter, Sam moved away in a crouch, following the circular stone wall around the well until he reached the point closest to the front of the cantina.

Hector watched him run to the cantina’s front and press his back against the adobe wall beside the doorway. Using the shotgun barrel, Sam reached out, shoved the blanket to the side, peeped in, then slipped inside the cantina. As soon as he stepped inside, he stopped and looked over at Dick Hirsh lying sprawled on the dirt floor twenty feet away. On the side of Hirsh’s head he saw fresh blood.

Dead . . . ? He didn’t think so. He saw no spray of blood and brain matter along the floor or on the wall, but he did quickly take note that Hirsh still gripped a cocked Colt. Quietly, Sam said, "Hirsh, when you make your move with that pistol, I’m giving you both barrels.’’

In the dirt, Hirsh’s gun hand opened slowly, dropped the Colt and moved away from it. ‘‘Damn it, Ranger . . . all right,’’ he growled, his voice sounding weak but still defiant.

His shotgun poised ready, Sam stepped closer, not convinced that was the only trick the wounded gunman had up his sleeve. ‘‘Which way are they headed, Hirsh?’’ he asked, looking all around the abandoned cantina, and seeing only a broken chair and an overturned table.

‘‘I’ll—I’ll tell you, Ranger,’’ the wounded outlaw said haltingly, his hand going to his real wound, the gaping bullet hole in his chest. ‘‘Come over here . . . so’s I don’t have to holler.’’

Here it comes, another trick, Sam told himself. But he stepped forward all the same. Behind him he heard Hector say from the doorway, ‘‘I’m coming in, Ranger. I told the men to stay back out of the—’’

‘‘No, wait, Hector,’’ the ranger warned, seeing the overturned table roll sideways a foot as one of the escaped convicts sprang up from behind it.

On the floor Hirsh grabbed his Colt as the ranger’s shotgun exploded at the rushing convict, picking the gunman up from behind the overturned table and flinging him backward. But he knew he didn’t have time to swing the shotgun back around toward Hirsh before Hirsh pulled the trigger.

But it didn’t matter. Hector reacted quickly, seeing Hirsh grab the pistol. Before the wounded outlaw could get a shot off, the Winchester bucked in Hector’s hands and sent a round into Hirsh’s shoulder, causing the Colt to fly from his grip.

‘‘Damn it!’’ Hirsh moaned. ‘‘I’m shot again . . . shot twice by my own gun!’’ His voice, though still weak, sounded stronger than it had moments earlier.

‘‘No, hold your fire,’’ Sam said, raising a gloved hand toward Hector to stop him from firing again. Stepping forward with his smoking shotgun aimed at Dick Hirsh, Sam said, ‘‘Hirsh, there’re men waiting out there wanting to string you up. Either tell me where Suelo Soto and Nate Ransdale are headed, or I’ll feed you to them. You can spend your last minutes swinging from a limb.’’

Hirsh let out a shallow breath and said, ‘‘All right, Ranger. That’s Ted Shala . . . you killed over there.’’ He gasped to catch his breath, then continued. ‘‘Soto, Ransdale and me were all . . . headed south, down through Sonora, going to lose ourselves.’’

Hearing the ranger’s tone, Hirsh said, ‘‘It’s the truth, Ranger. I don’t owe . . . them two nothing.’’ His voice grew weaker as he spoke. ‘‘It was Soto’s idea . . . for me and Shala to gun you down. He could have . . . taken me with them, but no . . . he left us here.’’

‘‘I expect I’ll . . . never know.’’ Hirsh gave a weak grin; blood trickled from his lips. ‘‘Will you . . . ?’’

Sam and Hector watched the outlaw’s eyes glaze over and turn blank. Sam let his shotgun slump in his hands as he stepped over and took a closer look at the other dead man lying sprawled on the dirt floor, riddled with buckshot. ‘‘Obliged for your help, Hector,’’ he said over his shoulder as he opened the shotgun to replace the spent shell.

‘‘You are welcome, Ranger,’’ Hector replied. He turned the big Winchester back and forth as he looked at it. As far as he was concerned the repeating rifle now belonged to him. ‘‘Do you think he is telling the truth about Sonora?’’

‘‘As soon as I rest my stallion and find myself a good meal,’’ Sam said, hearing the men venture toward the blanketed doorway.

‘‘Careful, boys,’’ Simon Gates said to the others in a gravelly voice. He held the front door blanket to the side and looked in, the coiled rope in his clenched fist. Inside the cantina, the men looked back and forth at the bodies on the dirt floor. ‘‘Hot damn, fellows,’’ Gates chuckled. ‘‘It looks like our own Hector Sandavol is a bonafide gunfighting hero.’’ He gestured his coiled rope toward the dead outlaws. ‘‘Let’s get this trash cleared out of here. I think the town of Valle Hermoso owes us all a drink.’’

‘‘I have no time for drinking,’’ said Hector, turning toward the door. ‘‘My brother, Ramon, is lying dead in the street.’’

Giving the rest of the men an annoyed look, Gates called out, ‘‘Well, what are you all waiting for? Let’s give Hector a hand with his brother.’’