Ambush at Shadow Valley

Looking back into the darkness, Soto and Clarimonde watched as a streak of lightning split the night, followed by a deep growl of rumbling thunder. ‘‘You did what you said you’d do. You’ve gotten us to Shadow Valley,’’ Soto said. ‘‘If we’re lucky we’ll be up on the eastern slope before this storm hits.’’

Clarimonde did not want to mention that he’d told her once they’d ridden through Shadow Valley she would be free to go. With this man, bringing up the matter could bring about her death. She’d decided it would be better to keep her mouth shut and let him be the one to mention her freedom. ‘‘The valley is full of overhangs where we can take shelter until the storm has passed,’’ Clarimonde said above a strong, whirring wind.

‘‘No,’’ said Soto. ‘‘If we wait out the storm down here, when it’s over we’ll leave prints up out of the valley.’’ He sidled his horse up close to the big paint she rode. Behind him he led Ransdale’s horse and the horse Ransdale had kept for a spare. ‘‘You don’t want to do that, do you? Leave prints for the ranger to follow?’’

‘‘I had not thought about that,’’ Clarimonde said honestly. She grew frightened having him this close to her. Now that he’d reached Shadow Valley, she wondered what use she was to him. She’d seen how quickly and callously he had killed Nate Ransdale, a man he’d broken out of prison with. She had no doubt he could kill her without batting an eye.

‘‘I know you didn’t,’’ Soto said, ‘‘but I thought about it. If we stay ahead of the storm, maybe even ride through some of it, by morning when it’s over, nobody can tell that we ever rode through here.’’

‘‘Yes, I understand,’’ Clarimonde said, feeling relieved that he seemed to believe her. She felt even more relieved when he reined his horse away from her and turned back to the trail leading down into the depth of the dark, narrow valley.

As Soto rode ahead of her a few feet, he said over his shoulder, ‘‘Are you ready to leave me now, go back to your father, your goats and your shepherd dogs?’’

Something about the way he asked sent a new chill up her spine. She was afraid to respond. ‘‘I have only one shepherd now, remember,’’ she said, keeping her voice even, trying to show no fear of him.

Clarimonde wondered if his words were a trap of some sort. He knew as well as she that Ransdale didn’t kill Bess; he did. She rode on in silence.

After a moment, Soto drew his horse back beside her and said, ‘‘You never answered me. Are you ready to leave me now?’’

Clarimonde weighed her answer carefully, then said in a quiet tone, ‘‘No, I’m not ready to leave you.’’

Soto reached a hand over and stroked it down her long hair. He said in a gentle but what she thought to be an insincere voice, ‘‘But you will let me know when you’re ready to leave, won’t you?’’

‘‘Good.’’ Soto grinned in the darkness. Taunting her further he asked again, ‘‘But you’re sure you’re not ready to leave right now?’’

Yes, he was toying with her, she told herself, the way a cat played with a wounded mouse. ‘‘No,’’ she repeated quietly.

Soto gave a dark chuckle. ‘‘That was a wise answer, Clarimonde,’’ he said. Making it a point to let her hear him uncock his big Colt, he slipped the gun back into his holster, dropped his horse back and gave the big paint a sound slap on its rump, sending it forward at a brisk clip along the dark trail.

Moments later a hard, wind-driven rain roared in sideways across a rocky stretch of tall wild grass, broom sage and scrub oak. They continued to follow the snaking valley floor for more than an hour until the water rushing around their horses’ legs became too swift and powerful and filled with bracken and downfallen branches for the animals to negotiate.

"Hold on. We’re going up,’’ Soto shouted against the raging storm. Knowing she hadn’t heard him, he grabbed the paint horse by its bridle and pulled animal and rider along behind him, upward onto a steep, mud-slick path.

Clinging to the paint horse’s wet mane, Clarimonde held on for her life as lightning struck along the hillside, casting the night a ghostly gray. In those sudden flashes she saw streams of runoff water crash against rock and spray wildly down over them. She caught glimpses of the animals struggling upward; she witnessed the spare horse lose its battle against the downpour and go toppling backward in a wild thrashing of limbs, loose rock and splashing mud.

‘‘Suelo!’’ she cried out, feeling the paint start to falter and lose its balance beneath her.

‘‘I’ve got you!’’ She heard Soto reply. From out of nowhere she felt him slip over onto the paint horse behind her and straighten the animal, leading his own mount behind him by its reins. ‘‘Lie forward!’’ he shouted at her ear above the roar of the storm.

His arms went around her. Like it or not he brought with him a means of command, a way of taking the will of the animal and making it his own. With their weight forward on the paint, the strong animal seemed to balance more securely against the rush of water and the slick footing and dig and climb its way to the top of the steep hill.

As the animal stepped onto level ground through a coursing short waterfall at the lands edge, Soto said in a flash of lightning, ‘‘Are there times when the devil is a welcome hand?’’

Clarimonde pretended not to hear him as he slid effortlessly from behind her and back onto his own mount and gigged it forward. Once again taking the paint by its bridle, Soto pulled the animal along across a flat, rocky mesa for the following hour until the storm began to lessen around them and roar and flash along their back trail.

Ten miles farther along a higher trail above Shadow Valley, the rain began to subside. The wind lessened and grew cooler, so much so that Clarimonde shivered in her wet clothes in spite of a blanket Soto unrolled from a dry, canvas-covered bedroll and spread over her shoulders.

Obediently, she crawled from her saddle over onto Soto’s horse and wrapped the blanket around them both, too cold and too exhausted to even care. Behind them the storm spent itself out along the valley floor. Clarimonde knew that the law would have a hard time picking up their trail, but she was too tired to think about it right then. As the warmth of their bodies caught up to them beneath the blanket, she laid her cheek forward against Soto’s back and drifted off to sleep.

They rode on through the night. While Clarimonde slept, Soto did a peculiar thing. Instead of staying on the high trail above Shadow Valley, now that the storm had passed, he rode gradually back down onto the valley floor.

At daylight Clarimonde awakened when the horse came to a halt beneath a large rock that stood like a powerful sentinel above the narrow valley trail. ‘‘Where—where are we?’’ she asked sleepily. ‘‘Is this still Shadow Valley?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Soto replied, looking up at the large rock and the man standing beside it. ‘‘This is the end of Shadow Valley, a place you know nothing about. My family had mine holdings here for many years, under an agreement with the Mexican government.’’

She looked all around, long enough to realize that Soto was right; she’d never ridden this far along into the valley. The valley had narrowed into more of a crevice sliced deep into the earth. Looking at the paint horse standing beside her, its reins in his hand, she asked Soto quietly, ‘‘Do you want me to get back on the other horse, now?’’

‘‘No,’’ Soto said sharply, ‘‘stay where you are. I like feeling you against my back. You’ll know when I’ve had enough,’’ he added in a menacing tone.

Soto called out, his rifle lying across his lap, ‘‘It’s me, Suelo Soto . . . one of the Cera Sotos who built the mine standing behind you.’’

‘‘Suelo Soto?’’ the man called out in a gruff but stunned voice. His rifle lowered in his hands. ‘‘Forgive me, Suelo! It is I, Juan Mandega. Ride in, por favor, by all means, ride in!’’

"That’s what I thought," Soto said under his breath, punching his boot heels to his horse’s side, sending it forward. Over his shoulder, he said to Clarimonde, ‘‘We’ll find you some clean clothes and a trail jacket in here.’’ He grinned without turning to her. ‘‘I can’t have a woman travel with me in rags. What would the Hole-in-the-wall Gang think?’’

The Hole-in-the-wall Gang? Clarimonde sat silently, wondering if he had any intention of ever turning her loose.

‘‘We’re going to rest here for a while before riding back across the border,’’ Soto said. Then he asked mockingly, ‘‘Is that all right with you?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Clarimonde said, agreeing with him, knowing better than to question anything he said or did. ‘‘What about the law on our trail?’’

‘‘The law?’’ Soto said. ‘‘The law stops being a problem once I arrive at the old Soto Cera Mining Company.’’

Clarimonde asked nothing else. She sat quietly, not knowing what to expect as the horse carried them on along the rocky trail into the small, dusty mining community perched upon a bare hillside.

Once upon the main street of the large, abandoned mining operation, Soto wasted no time. No sooner had the few remaining inhabitants of Soto Cera gathered in the dusty street to meet him than he began issuing orders, sending three of the elderly miners to gather picks, shovels and ropes.

The old men hesitated only long enough to look to Juan Mandega for approval. As soon as Juan said to them, ‘‘Well, what are you waiting for?’’ the old men scurried away to do Soto’s bidding.

As the old men left and a couple of others eased away before they were given orders to follow, Juan turned to Soto and said, ‘‘You must excuse them. It has been a long time since anyone from the Soto Cera family has been here to guide them.’’ His voice turned humble. ‘‘I have tried my best to carry on in some small way—’’

‘‘You have done well, Juan Mandega,’’ Soto said, cutting him short. ‘‘I’ll see to it that my family hears of your loyalty.’’

‘‘Now, let’s get busy,’’ said Soto. He took Clarimonde by the shoulder and guided her toward two women who stood watching nearby. ‘‘You two, take her and find her some clothes and a coat fit for the trail.’’ He said quietly to Clarimonde, ‘‘Will this be your chance to escape? Think it over carefully before you attempt something foolish.’’

Turning to Juan Mandega, Soto said, ‘‘Is the iron door still in place? Are there still blasting supplies stored there where I left them?’’

"Sí, everything is where you told me to keep it until you returned,’’ said Juan. He managed a thin smile. ‘‘No one has been brave enough to move it.’’

‘‘Then let’s go get it.’’ Soto grinned. He slapped Juan on the back and gave him a half shove toward a tall mountain of rock standing seventy yards away.

But Juan hesitated, and asked with a suspicious look in his eyes, ‘‘We heard that you were in prison in the Arizona Territory. But now you have escaped, is it so?’’

‘‘Yes, I escaped,’’ said Soto, seeing he would have to offer some sort of explanation. ‘‘There is a lawman on my trail. I’m going to close the main trail through Shadow Valley and make him have to double back and take another trail through here.’’

‘‘That’s right,’’ said Soto, knowing he needed this man’s help to get everything done in time. ‘‘I knew once I got here, I could count on you, the way my family has always counted on you. Was I right in thinking that, Juan?’’ he asked, staring closely at him.

‘‘As soon as I am gone, ride down to the south end of Shadow Valley, to my brothers in Satan. Tell them to send my brother demons from hell to follow me. Tell them to see into my mind and they’ll know what to do when the time comes.’’

Juan’s expression turned grim at the prospect of riding to the darkest end of Shadow Valley. But he swallowed a knot in his throat, and said "Sí, when you are gone I will go and tell them.’’ He couldn’t bear thinking what would happen to his family and himself if he didn’t do as he was told.

The two turned and walked toward a mule hitched at an iron ring along the edge of the dirt street. ‘‘Now, help me load my supplies,’’ said Soto.

The storm had cost the two lawmen precious time. But there was nothing they could do about it now, Sam thought, leaning low on his saddle and searching the wet ground for any sign of the horse’s tracks. Beside him a few yards away Hector said, ‘‘He could have ridden up at any point along this valley trail.’’ As he spoke he looked upward, searching along the ridgeline above them.

‘‘Yes, the storm,’’ Hector said with a touch of bitterness. ‘‘Just when we could have tightened the noose around his murdering neck, the weather turns against us.’’ He spit in disgust. ‘‘The storm could not have come at a worse time.’’

‘‘Storms come when they come,’’ said Sam, straightening in his saddle and nudging Black Pot over to Hector. ‘‘We have to decide whether it just slows down awhile, or stops us altogether. Isn’t that true, Guardia?’’ When he finished speaking he stared at Hector until the young lawman shook his head and gave a tired smile.

‘‘It has slowed us down,’’ he said, reining his horse back to the trail, ‘‘but it has not stopped us.’’ He raised his face to the heavens and said loudly, as if speaking to all of nature itself, ‘‘Do you hear that? We are not stopping. We are continuing on.’’

Sam offered a trace of a wry smile and nudged his stallion forward. A half hour later the ranger stopped suddenly as the hoofprints of three horses appeared back on the trail. ‘‘Finally, we get a break,’’ Hector said with a tight sigh.

But Sam found no relief in the prints coming down to the valley floor. He looked up along the ridges above and said, thinking out loud, ‘‘He rode all the way up there out of the storm. . . . Why did he ride back down afterward?’’

‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Hector, ‘‘but let’s be glad he did. Now we found his trail. It is always good to find the trail you search for, eh?’’ He smiled, happy with their discovery.

‘‘Yes, it is,’’ said Sam, still searching the higher ridges, ‘‘unless for some reason he wanted us to find his tracks again.’’

Hector’s smile went away as he let the ranger’s words sink in. With a moment of consideration he said, ‘‘The farther we ride into Shadow Valley, the steeper and closer the walls will become on either side.’’ He gave the ranger a knowing look. ‘‘He has something in mind for us there, where the valley grows too narrow to escape unless we ride a long way back.’’

‘‘If we climbed up here, where he climbed down,’’ Sam asked pointing first at the track on the ground, then up the steep hillside, ‘‘how much longer will it take us to catch up to him?’’

Hector considered it. ‘‘I am not familiar with that end of Shadow Valley, but always it takes longer to ride along those ridge trails. It will cost us much time. He can easily slip away from us.’’

‘‘Then we’ll take our chances on finding him again,’’ Sam speculated. ‘‘I don’t want to track a man who’s leading me to where he wants me to be.’’ As he spoke he’d already begun turning his stallion to the uphill climb toward the ridgeline.

Three miles ahead of the lawmen, Soto paced back and forth restlessly, on a level landing in the hillside where he could see the large rock standing above the narrowed trail at the end of Shadow Valley. ‘‘What could be keeping him from getting here?’’ he asked himself aloud.

Hearing him, Juan offered an answer, having listened as Soto told him about the lawman on his trail: ‘‘Perhaps when he saw that the storm washed out your tracks, he decided to turn back and give up the chase.’’

Juan shrugged. ‘‘Then he is coming. There is no need to concern yourself. If he is the kind of man you say, it is not a question of if he’ll be here, only a matter of when.’’

Soto took a breath and gave a thin smile. ‘‘You’re right, Juan. What do I care when he gets here. The dynamite I made is in place and all set. I wanted to watch him die, but knowing I got him off my tail is enough for now. I’ve got bigger business awaiting me.’’

‘‘Say the word, and I blow the rock and close the valley,’’ Juan said, eager to get Soto out of the peaceful hill community.

‘‘Yes,’’ said Soto. ‘‘Blow it to hell. Then go send my brothers in Satan to find my trail.’’ He smiled. ‘‘Tell them I give them the sign. I will make them rich.’’ He turned and walked to where Clarimonde stood with the horses and a mule loaded with the supplies they’d taken from a storage cave in the hillside. ‘‘Get mounted,’’ he said, running a hand down her long, freshly washed hair hanging from beneath a broad, straw sombrero. ‘‘We’re leaving.’’

‘‘What about the law,’’ Clarimonde asked. She wore a pair of thin, white peasant trousers and a flimsy, collarless peasant shirt with a deep, open neckline. A faded striped serape lay draped over the paint’s rump behind the saddle.

‘‘I have taken care of the law one way or the other,’’ Soto replied. ‘‘Either he’ll soon be dead, or else he’ll be backtracking the length of Shadow Valley, licking his wounds, wondering what to do next.’’ His words made her heart sink.

‘‘Oh, then we have nothing more to fear,’’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t catch the terrible look of disappointment she knew came over her face.

Soto smiled knowingly. ‘‘That’s right, Clarimonde,we have nothing to fear.’’ He cupped her breast with his gloved hand and said closer to her face, ‘‘From here on it’s just you and me. We will have the devil’s protection. We can do whatever pleases us.’’ He liked the way she looked off into the distance, avoiding his eyes.

As the two mounted, Soto insisting she ride double, perched upon his lap, they watched Juan give a signal, and the earth rumbled underfoot as a blast of rock, dirt, smoke and hillside rose into the air above Shadow Valley and rained back down on itself. ‘‘I’d say my explosive-making skills have not suffered during my stay in Yuma,’’ Soto chuckled, putting his heels to his horse’s sides.

Three miles away at the upper edge of the steep hillside, the ranger and Hector both settled their animals beneath them and looked at the large rise of dust above the explosion. ‘‘There it is,’’ Sam said, ‘‘the surprise that awaited us, had we fallen for it.’’

Hector crossed himself idly. ‘‘That is just about where we would have been if we had stayed on the valley floor and ridden on,’’ he said.

Seeing the look on Hector’s face, Sam said, ‘‘A miss is as good as a mile. Now that he thinks he’s killed us or sent us backtracking, we’ll get the upper hand while he slows down some and takes his time.’’

‘‘Oh, there’s not a doubt in my mind he’s headed back across the border now,’’ Sam said. ‘‘He’s feeling too full of himself to quit just now. He thinks he’s won the game.’’

‘‘No,’’ Hector replied. ‘‘Always as vaqueros my brother and I went where the work took us. Many times we crossed the border. But this will be the first time I cross it as a lawman, hunting a man for murder.’’

‘‘If you think you had better stop, I told you I’ll see that Soto gets what’s coming to him for killing your brother, Ramon, and Luis Gravis,’’ Sam said, gauging Hector.

‘‘Gracias,’’ said Hector. ‘‘I started out thirsting for revenge for my brother and Luis Gravis. But that is no longer the case.’’