CHILTON HALTED the swift flight from Xalostoc and flung his squad of dragoons in a skirmish line across the main road leading from the town. If the citizens wanted a fight, then let it be here, for he did not want a long drawn-out pursuit as had occurred at Cuernavaca. Then still in the end have to kill some of the townsfolk to turn them back.
Mexican horsemen moved on the streets, gathering into a crowd of forty or so at the edge of Xalostoc. Matt called out an order, and the dragoons trotted their mounts back a hundred yards toward the town. Show the Mexicans that the dragoons are willing to fight, thought Chilton. Perhaps he could bluff and scare them from venturing out to challenge the Americans and in this manner prevent a battle.
Matt brought his men to a standstill facing the town. They sat their prancing mounts and held their carbines ready.
The dragoons waited, letting the slow minutes pass, and no men of Xalostoc rode out to do battle with them. Chilton knew there was a second reason that the Mexicans held back. What untrained horsemen wanted to fight sixteen heavily armed cavalrymen for a measly six thousand pesos, and that money probably belonging to other men?
Chilton cursed his damn dismal luck. The vault of the rather sizable bank had contained only the pitifully small amount of Mexican paper money and not one gold coin. Yet the town of about three thousand folk was prosperous, that was evident. Many of the buildings were quite large and well built, and the shops around the plaza were full of merchandise. The soils of the farms were deep and rich. So where was the money that men used in trade and as a form of wealth?
“Form up,” Chilton ordered. “Let’s ride.”
For some instinctive reason Chilton could not have explained. He guided his band of dragoons down from the surface of the plain into an arroyo, hiding them there as they fled Xalostoc. They ran their steeds, splashing the water holes and flinging dirt from the sandbars.
The ravine, flat bottomed and steep sided, extended southeast across the valley. Matt judged that it should reach the mountains two miles south of where he had camped with his men during the night. That was good, for he did not want to return to Mexico City along the route they had traveled before.
The arroyo began to shallow, then abruptly ended. Matt spurred his horse in a scrambling run up the precipitous dirt wall to the flatland above. Behind him, his men shouted encouragement to their mounts. Leather whips slapped sharply on sweating flanks.
Pawing and tearing at the bank, the beasts surged up from the depths of the ravine in a pall of new spun dust. Matt cast a quick look back. All the riders had safely made the ascent. He raced them across the two hundred yards to the dense woods on the flank of the Sierra Zoltepetl Mountains.
The dragoons fought upward, tearing a path through the thick tangle of brush growing on the stony side of the mountain.
An hour later, with the horses laboring mightily, the riders came onto a lightly used wagon road. Matt stared to the southeast along the way. Out there, thirty five miles or so and beyond the mountains and foothills, lay Mexico City. He heard the strenuous breathing of the horses around him. If the dragoons held to the brush, the animals would soon to be totally exhausted. Matt turned to follow the easier route toward the city.
The road showed signs of recent use, the weeds crushed and the barren spots of earth containing imprints of horses’ hooves and narrow, iron-rimmed wheels. A small wagon or buggy escorted by several riders had passed.
“Not older than early this morning,” said Stoffer, also observing the hoof and wheel indentations. “They came from the direction of Xalostoc. Do you suppose they are hauling the gold that we could not find?”
“Long odds against that being the case. But it’s going in the direction we want to go, so we’ll follow along and check it out.”
* * *
“Seven riders and two men in the wagon,” said Chilton. “They are not caballeros but men in uniform and armed with muskets for a fight. That man on the gray horse is an officer in the Mexican army.”
The dragoons had overtaken the cavalcade of horsemen and wagon on a stretch of winding road. The Americans had quickly veered aside into the trees before they were seen. Matt studied the Mexicans thoughtfully. What was one of Santa Anna’s officers doing here with a patrol? What were they transporting?
“Do you think we should attack them, Lieutenant?” asked Stoffer. “I’d like to see what they are hauling.”
“I would also like to know,” Matt said. He watched the soldier on point guard fifty yards in front, and the rear one an equal distance behind, warily scan the terrain in all directions.
“Whatever it is, it’s heavy,” said the sergeant. “I can see the wagon jar as the springs bottom out on the axle every time a rut is hit.”
“Let’s get closer,” Matt said. He led off through the trees beside the road.
The woods fell away, and the road came out into a broad meadow. The Mexican patrol turned up a lane toward a large stone-and-wood hacienda set at the upper end of the opening. A circular corral of an acre or so and a long, narrow barn were set off to the right side. Matt saw several horses tied in stalls within the barn. On the opposite end of the house were an ungrazed field of grass and a garden. More distant, perhaps a fifth of a mile, was a cluster of small, one-room structures, the homes of the ranch peons. Matt heard the slender tinkling of children’s laughter.
The wagon stopped at the front of the house. Six of the guards lifted heavy bags from the wagon and carried them inside. The last guard took the reins of the mounts and went off with the pair of men in the wagon to the barn.
“Only gold would be that heavy for its bulk,” said Towell.
Chilton ringed his view over the hacienda with its massive walls. Heavy wooden shutters hung at every window, ready to be slammed shut. He could make out gunports in the shutters.
“That’s a damn strong fortress to protect the gold if that’s what they have,” Stoffer said. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”
“We know the money of Xalostoc has been moved. Perhaps it is here. We can go take a look, or continue on to camp at Tacubaya. What say you all? But consider this, I believe those soldiers will certainly fight.”
“You call the tune, Lieutenant,” said Towell.
The remaining men nodded in agreement. Stoffer said, “Yes, you decide.”
Chilton remembered how once he could have hurled his men without hesitation straight into the flaming muzzles of enemy cannon to capture a gun emplacement or a strong redoubt. Now, today, he sensed the weakness of that daring resolve to gamble their lives. However, he must not let them know that. They must remain strong in their belief in him until their goal was reached.
“We go in,” Matt said in a flat tone.
“From here and spurring like crazy, it’ll take twelve to thirteen seconds to reach the hacienda,” Stoffer said.
“We don’t do it in a charge,” Chilton replied. “See that area of tall grass stretching out across the hillside? Then comes the garden that goes up near the house. The horses will walk quiet in those places.”
“The Mexicans will see us and shoot the hell out of us out here in the clearing,” exclaimed Towell.
“They will surely hear us if we come pounding in. There will be no surprise, and some of us could die. But instead we’ll walk up silently on the end of the house where the men in the barn can’t see us. The troopers in the house will stay inside long enough to have a cold drink and talk a couple of minutes before they’re organized into guard details. We’ll catch them before that happens and they come outside.
“Now, no more delay in discussing it.” Chilton’s voice was firm and confident. He kicked his horse out of the protective cover of the trees and started over the meadow.
He tensed for the crash of a rifle or cry of alarm. There was only the chitter of the insects in the grass of the meadow and the faint laugh of the distant children in innocent play.
Chilton whispered over his shoulder to Stoffer. “Pick four men to go with you. Once the rest of us are inside, you continue on and keep the Mexicans in the barn from joining in the fight.”
“Right, sir.” The sergeant dropped back to tell the others of the plan.
The band reached the middle of the tall grass area. Then the edge of the garden was made good. The hooves of the horses crunched through long rows of green and red peppers, and a patch of late growing melons.
Against the wall of the hacienda, Chilton swung down from his mount. “Darcy,” he whispered, “Hold the horses. You be here if we need to leave in a hurry.”
“I’ll not budge,” Darcy responded.
“Towell, take those four men,” Matt said, “and go in the rear door. You five come with me. Sergeant, get ready to do your part.”
Chilton pulled his pistols as he moved around the corner. The door was forty, fifty feet away beyond two windows. The space to cross was exposed, dangerous, and seemed immensely long. The barn was in full view past the house. Anyone there could easily see the Americans.
He heard the soft steps of his men behind him as he moved. The first window was passed. Then the second. The door was ajar. A man speaking Spanish was giving orders, setting watch periods for the guards.
Matt sprang through the door in a headlong rush. He darted to the side to allow those behind to enter unimpeded. His pistols lifted, the open black bores of the barrels swinging to find targets.
The Mexicans stood near the center of the large room. An old man who had not been with the soldiers was beside the officer. They all whirled in astonishment as the Americans poured in. Their hands grabbed for pistols.
“Hold it,” Matt cried out in Spanish, “and you shall live.”
His words were far too late. Already guns had been snatched up, cocked, and were rising to point.
Matt began to shoot. A heavily bearded man was very quick. Chilton shot into the center of him. The man’s bones melted and he collapsed. The officer fell at Matt’s second shot.
Then many pistols were banging beside Chilton. Others exploded from the rear door. A fierce wind seemed to strike the Mexicans, spinning them, whipping them backward, to fall crashing down.
One of the dying men fired into the floor as he fell. Another man, preparing to shoot, was whirled around by the strike of a bullet. He shot a comrade in the side.
Matt began to breathe again. Not one bullet came close to the dragoons. The surprise had been complete.
He stepped to the side to see past the cloud of gray gunpowder smoke boiling and eddying in front of him. One of the Mexican soldiers, shot through the neck and spinal cord, began to buck and roll and twitch like a berserk marionette.
A dragoon revolver exploded. The man on the floor jerked and then lay crumpled and still.
A rapid rattle of gunshot sounded from outside. A half minute later Stoffer, with his pistol cocked, came cautiously in the door. His glance swept over the dead men and then rested on Chilton.
“All secure at the barn, Lieutenant,” Stoffer reported.
“My God! Look at this,” Towell croaked in amazement. “Gold!” He was peering into one of the leather bags the soldiers had carried inside. He sprang to another one and ripped off the tie. “More gold!”
The Americans gathered around. The men nearest Towell plunged their hands into the throats of the bags and scooped up quantities of yellow coins to show to their comrades.
“No town the size of Xalostoc ever had this much wealth,” Stoffer muttered in a weak yet elated voice.
“What’s this?” Darcy asked, holding up a small pint-sized pouch he had extracted from one of the larger sacks. He jerked the tie loose and poured part of the contents into the palm of his hand.
“Jewels! Holy heaven! Jewels of all colors and sizes.” His young voice cracked and broke.
“This is Santa Anna’s private treasure hoard,” Chilton said, staring at the great fortune. “That explains why the officer was here. He must have been one of the general’s trusted staff.”
“Maybe we won’t have to rob any more towns,” Darcy said in a hopeful tone.
“I’d say you’re correct,” replied Matt. “There is sufficient wealth to more than satisfy our needs. Sergeant, let’s get out of here quickly. The shots could be heard a long distance over the mountainside.”
“Shall we take the wagon to haul all this weight?”
“No. Rig three of the horses for packing. We want the ability to travel wherever it’s safest, the deep woods or the steepest mountain slopes. Make sure the horses are loaded lightly so they can keep up regardless of how fast we ride. Use four of them if needed.”
Stoffer jabbed a finger at the two men nearest to him. “You and you, come with me.” They trotted out the door.
“Carry all this outside,” ordered Chilton.
Darcy hoisted one of the bags. “Heavy, but oh so lovely.” He laughed gleefully.
* * *
The dust boiled up, a small brown cloud against the green of the valley floor. Cavillin’s eye caught the sudden appearance of new color. He lifted his spyglass. At the end of a long ravine nearly two miles away, a string of riders raced over a short strip of open land and disappeared into the woods on the side of Sierra Zoltepetl.
“There they go,” Tom called to his men and pointed. “They are returning on a different route.”
“That mountain is hellish rough going for horses,” observed Granger, looking up at the range of tall volcanic peaks.
“There’s a road someplace near where they disappeared,” said Cavillin, recalling the symbols of the map. “Perhaps they will follow it. They have nearly forty miles to go to reach Mexico City. We must catch them before dark sets in and they mingle with all the other soldiers in the city. We could never sort them out. The shortest way to overtake them is to go up and over the mountain.”
Cavillin surveyed Sierra Zoltepetl, rising up steeply from deep valleys. The topmost thousand feet was bare lava rock. Below that, the mountain was dark green with trees, brush, and a few grassy parks. It was about twenty five miles long and ran southwest.
“There must be good grazing up on the mountains,” Cavillin said. “That means there will be sheep and cattle trails nearly to the top. We’ll circle to the south until we find one. Then up and over, holding below the rocky crest. We’ll spot the sign of the outlaws somewhere on the other side. The tracks of sixteen horses can’t be hidden from us.”
The Rangers climbed Sierra Zoltepetl along a narrow, stony pathway on the spine of rock between two ravines. They passed over the crown and worked downward. In the evening, with the slanting sun rays baking the southern face of the mountain, the Rangers found the trail of the outlaw Americans on an old wagon road grown full of weeds.
Cavillin kicked his cayuse to a run along the fresh sign. I have you now, Captain Charles Gilchrist. The wind created by the racing steed sang past Tom’s ears.
* * *
The Rangers swarmed over the ridge of the hill. Ahead, the road lay in the bottom of a winding canyon lined with brush. A mile distant on the road, a knot of horsemen broke from a gallop to an all-out run.
“Yahoo!” bellowed Granger. “There they are. They’ve seen us, but we’ll catch them.” His voice rose in the wild, keening battle cry of the Rangers.
The others picked up his shout, sending the devilish cry rolling in loud waves down the canyon toward their prey.
Cavillin leaned far forward over the neck of his running mustang and watched the band of outlaws, like a cluster of black ants, hurtling away. He felt the powerful muscles of his big brute of a horse working easily as its legs reached for the maximum distance. It was the strength of the mounts that would determine whether or not he caught the robbers.
* * *
Matt Chilton and his dragoons rode across the evening at the top of their speed. Clotted sweat foam flew from the straining necks and flanks of the running horses. Yet the Rangers, on their stronger mounts, toughened by the long campaign to the sea, had gained half a mile and were closing inexorably upon them.
Matt had recognized the Rangers by the ragtag, multicolored outfits they wore. Of all the possible squads of men that could have been sent to hunt him, the Rangers were the most skilled and dangerous.
He cast a look to the west. The sullen redeye of the sun rested its half-open eye on the horizon. If Matt could in some way hold a lead until dark, his men might possibly escape.
The road left the giant hulk of Zoltepetl and came down into the rolling foothills. Faraway Mexico City was visible now and then through gaps between the hills. Matt dared not head directly to the city while there was still daylight. At the rate the Rangers were gaining on him, they would catch him on the open valley floor.
He guided to the right, heading south toward a broad area of swampland. He had once ridden past the border of the zone of stagnant water, cane grass higher than a man’s head, and a few islands of firm ground covered with dense brush. The place was hazardous to travel in but still could hold safety for the hunted.
His horse was weakening rapidly. Its stride was becoming uncoordinated and wavering. The suck and blow of its lungs was a hoarse, ragged saw. It was a splendid beast, an excellent runner, but Matt was killing it.
The other dragoons understood Chilton’s plan. They began to call desperately to their horses, exhorting them to give the last heartbeat of their strength.
Matt looked at the blown and lathered mounts. A mile, maybe, and the race would be ended for the jaded animals.
The sun was down. The black wave of the night was stalking noiselessly in from the east. Distant objects were losing their form. Matt began to have hopes that he could reach the darkness and the swamp before the Rangers overtook him.
His horse stumbled with exhaustion. He jerked its head up harshly with the reins. Blood and froth dripped from the beast’s flaring nostrils. Chilton reached out and stroked the wet neck. Only half a mile to go, old fellow. You can do it.
A quarter of a mile. The foliage of the swamp could be made out. “Follow me close,” Chilton shouted at his men.
Others cried out the orders to those behind. The dragoons plunged into the tall cane grass of the swamp.
Chilton ran his band recklessly onward for a hundred yards. The sharp cane leaves whipped at him. The ground became soft and sloppy beneath his horse’s feet. He abruptly slowed to a quiet walk. Intently he stared down, scouring the surfaces of the earth for something solid. He identified a strip of grass crossing at a right angle to his course. That difference in vegetation could mean more firm footing. He swerved left and along it.
The thudding run of the Rangers ceased. They had reached the edge of the swamp. Chilton instantly halted. His ears strained, reaching out for sound. All he could hear was the wind rustling the canes.
Matt led his men on at a silent walk. He must burrow more deeply into the swamp, must somehow elude the pursuers for a few minutes longer, until full darkness fell and entirely hid the hoofprints of his horses.
He meandered left and right, following a strip of dry land that came out of the cane and cut through an area of muck and a thick growth of water-loving edges and brush. The zone of dry land broadened to four or five acres and rose to stand ten feet above the surrounding marsh.
Matt led straight across to the far side and down the sloping bank. He hoped fervently for one more bit of luck, another dry avenue to take them farther into the swamp. If the dragoons could escape the Rangers, they would have all night to discover a way out.
In the thickening gray dusk Matt saw only water, mud, and scanty knee-high moisture-loving grass. It was impossible to go on. The horses, with their relatively small hooves, would become mired in the muck within the first few steps.
His men crowded forward beside him to see what was causing the delay. They started to curse in whispers.
“We’re trapped,” hissed Stoffer. “We’ll have to fight our way out. I’d rather be shot than hung.”
“Quiet,” said Chilton. “Be absolutely quiet. It’ll be so dark in a minute or two that no one will be able to find us.”
The low thump of walking horses came from the opposite side of the meadow. Matt could tell the Rangers were fanning out, trying to find the sign of riders in the growing darkness.
A man on a horse appeared on the bank above, his form outlined against the lighter gray of the sky. The Ranger leaned on the pommel of his saddle and looked down on the swamp.
Chilton heard Stoffer’s sharp intake of breath, and then the sergeant was swinging his Colt up, cocking his weapon as it rose.
Matt’s arm snaked out. His hand clamped down on the gun, catching the hammer as it was tripped and began to fall. He had recognized Cavillin.
Stoffer tried to wrench the pistol free. Matt continued to hold it in a viselike grip.
The Ranger lieutenant raised his eyes and looked out across the swampland and above the heads of the dragoons. Only one short snap of his head betrayed the fact that he had spotted Chilton and his band.
Cavillin called over his shoulder to his men. “There is nobody here. Let’s ride on and see if we can pick up the trail farther along.”
He reined his horse sharply, as if angry. Then he was gone.