Wildon, keeping himself from his wife’s sight, walked close to the wall of the ravine next to her hiding place. When he reached the opening, he stopped, holding the revolver in his hand. The distraught young man took a deep breath to steady himself.
It was such a bizarre, unrealistic situation. How could anyone have known at their wedding a few short months before that the groom would soon slay the bride? Or how would it have been possible to have seen the two playing together as children to realize that in the distant future they would be facing death in a ravine in the wilds of Mexico, surrounded by a gang of cutthroats?
Waves of guilt swept through the young man. It was all his fault that such a wonderful girl was going to meet so cruel an end. He now felt his desires to be a soldier to be boyish and stupid.
Wildon shook his head to clear his thoughts. This was no time for a muddled mind. He had to think of the best way to do it. He would find it impossible to sneak into the small area without her seeing him. Yet he could not force himself to simply walk up and shoot her straight away with those big, beautiful green eyes staring at him. Finally, the best way to perform the awful deed occurred to him.
He would embrace his love, then ease the pistol up to the back of her skull and pull the trigger.
With any luck at all, the same bullet would kill him too.
Garrity fired again as Wildon stepped out and walked to the cut in the arroyo. When he stepped inside, he found Hester standing there. She had removed the hobbles from the horses, holding
onto the reins in her small hands.
She smiled bravely at him. “I thought we might be going to try riding away again, so I got the horses ready.”
“That was a good idea, dear,” he lied. “We
think we can make it this time.” He walked up to Hester, slipping his arms around her, and gently pulled her to him. “I love you.”
“I love you too, darling,” Hester replied. She looked up into his face. “Don’t worry, Wildon my love, we’ll get out of this.”
“Of course we will,” he said. He gently placed his hand on the back of her head and pressed it
to his chest. Taking a deep breath, he slowly
raised the pistol and put the muzzle a few inches from the nape of her neck. He took care to make sure the bullet would fire upward and cause instant death. Once again he said, “I love you.”
His finger tightened on the trigger.
A fresh roar of gunfire broke out above. “Lieutenant!” Garrity called. “Lieutenant Boothe!”
Thankful for the interruption, Wildon stepped back, releasing his hold on Hester. He ran from the hiding place and joined the sergeant. “What’s going on?” Suddenly he realized that the shooting out in the desert was not at them. “Who’s out there, Sergeant Garrity?”
“Yaquis,” Garrity said. “A bunch of the most beautiful goddamned ugly Yaqui Injuns you ever saw!” The excitement he showed was alien to his usual calm demeanor. “There must be fifty of the sonofabitches.”
Wildon cautiously raised his head up to see what was going on. He saw a large number of mounted Indians riding among the bandits. Both groups fired indiscriminately at each other in a frenzy of wild, uncontrolled fighting. “Are they here to help us?” he asked.
Garrity shook his head. “No, sir. They don’t even know we’re over here. If they did, we’d be in the same fix as those goddamned bandidos.”
“I wonder where they came from,” Wildon remarked. “And what the hell are they doing attacking the bandits?”
“They’re from the same group as that Injun that jumped you back on Bandido Mountain,” Garrity said. “They musta finally found the feller’s body. No doubt they figger them bandits done him in. So they trailed ’em here.”
“How could they track them?” Wildon asked. “Remember that’s the area where we lost the trail.”
“Hell, sir,” Garrity told him, “a Yaqui or Apache Injun could track a lizard across solid rock.” He looked over and saw Hester peering out of the cut. “Thank God you didn’t do it.”
“Do what?” Wildon asked. He knew that for the rest of his days he would try to deny not only to Garrity, but to himself that he had meant to kill his beloved Hester. He also knew he could never fool himself. This was an emotional torture to which he was condemned for all his days. “Never mind, sir. Let’s get the hell outta here.” The two rushed over to Hester and the mounts. Garrity took the bandit horse’s reins.
“What is happening?” Hester asked.
“We don’t have time to go into detail, darling,” Wildon said. “But unexpected help arrived.”
“Follow me,” Garrity told them. He led his horse down the arroyo, turning north until he reached a point that led to solid ground. “Okay, folks,” he said. “Let’s mount up and ride.” Following his instructions, they got into the . saddles. The hours of rest in the ravine had given their mounts a breather. Now, a bit fresher, the animals once again displayed an eagerness to run. Although they weren’t in top form, they could still gallop with respectable determination.
Wildon glanced back toward the impromptu battle going on to the south. The bandits and their Indian enemies were now closely intermingled. Hand-to-hand fighting had broken out in the vicious combat.
“They ain’t gonna notice us,” Garrity shouted. “But we got to clear the horizon. Ride!”
Wildon stuck close to Hester. The moment of truth again swept over him. Facts were facts, and the realization that he’d come so close to killing her churned painfully in his heart. If he had gone to perform the awful deed a minute earlier, he would have shot her only to find it had been all for nothing. The thought frightened him more than anything else had done during the entire rescue and escape.
But denial once again rushed through his mind. He wouldn’t have done it, he told himself, not in a thousand years. Almost weeping, he forced himself to concentrate on the flight to freedom.
Fifteen minutes later, they could tell there would be no pursuit. Even if the Yaquis discovered where they had been, the three would have a comfortable enough lead to be across the border and back in the United States before the fierce Indians could hope to catch up with them.
An hour later, cantering at a regular pace northward, Garrity made the happy announcement. “We’re outta Mexico.”
“Thank the good Lord that is over,” Hester said.
The sun was a red disk as it eased down on the western side of the Santo Domingos. The color seemed apropos after such a bloody day on the desert.
Hubert Mauveaux drank his coffee and stared into the flames of the campfire. The bandit leader glanced up when his name was called out.
Paco Fuentes joined his chief, squatting down and helping himself to the coffee. “Bueno, mi general, the situation is not the best.”
Mauveaux, sullen, looked out over the bivouac where the survivors of the day’s fighting were finishing up their evening meal. “What is the matter with the dogs? Have they been so badly whipped that their tails are between their legs?”
“The men are very confused,” Paco explained. “I have been talking to many of them. None expected the two gringos to fight like such devils, nor did they expect the Yaquis to join in the battle.”
Mauveaux reached inside his shirt and withdrew a cigar. He bit off the end and spat. “I will give ten thousand pesos to anyone who can explain to me why those Indians suddenly appeared and attacked us.”
“No one but the Yaquis could tell us that,” Paco said. “And they are all dead.”
“At a terrible cost to my army,” Mauveaux said.
“Most of your soldiers now wish to return to Montana Bandido” Paco said. “Many have died today, some are hurt, yet nobody has earned one centavo for all of that.”
“Mercenaires!” Mauveaux exclaimed. “Are they not satisfied to follow my orders? Do they not know that I shall lead them to greatness?”
“Perdoname, mi general,” Paco said, “but many of the men are not as devoted as myself.”
“You are a loyal subject, Paco,” Mauveaux said. “And you shall be well rewarded.”
"Gracias, mi general.”
Paco had been one of the first to join up when the Frenchman formed his gang. He’d liked Mauveaux’s style from the start. Although not much of a battle commander, the ex-officer was a good planner. He could coordinate train robberies, pick out particularly vulnerable haciendos for plundering, and intercept gold shipments with uncanny skill. Paco knew that if anything bad ever happened to Mauveaux, his own fortunes would decline because of it.
Mauveaux finished his coffee. “You look like a man with something on his mind, Paco.”
“I have, mi general,” Paco Fuentes said. “I would like to point out something to you in a most respectful manner.”
“Ah! You offer me counsel and advice? Please, I have valued your wise recommendations for several years now.”
“Thank you,” Fuentes said. “What I wish to discuss with you is an unpleasant fact. It would seem to me that you must react to this latest situation in a rapid and ruthless manner, mi general”
“Explain yourself.”
“The situation with the American woman has made you look most vulnerable,” Fuentes said diplomatically. “I fear many of the men think you made a fool of yourself over the woman.”
“Of course,” Mauveaux agreed. “Those dolts are not soulful beings with sentiment and tenderness in their hearts. They are boors and savages no better than animals.”
“Yes, mi general, but you need them to make your empire,” Fuentes said. He knew the empire-building scheme was insanity, but as long as successful robberies kept Mauveaux in gold and women, Paco was more than ready to encourage his leader to keep going. “So you must keep the soldiers satisfied.”
Mauveaux was thoughtful for several moments. “Of course. Even the emperors of Rome had to placate the Praetorian guard.”
“There are two things that must be done,” Fuentes continued. “The first thing is to continue the pursuit after the American woman.”
“But she will only go back to the useless baggage train,” Mauveaux said. “There is no loot there.”
“Es verdad—that is true,” Fuentes said. “When you announce your intention to attack there again, only your best men will follow you. The others will return to Bandido Mountain.”
“What is the point then?”
“The point, mi general, is that when you return to our town with the woman, it will bring your prestige back to where it was,” Fuentes argued. “The reluctant swine among your soldiers will once again be loyal and steadfast.”
“And if I don’t bring her back, some upstart will challenge my authority,” Mauveaux said, as the truth of the situation dawned on him.
“You have been thought of as soft because of your affections for the americana,” Fuentes continued. “You must show you are a merciless warrior king.”
“Emperor,” Mauveaux corrected him. “I am a merciless warrior emperor.”
“Seguro que si,” Fuentes agreed. “To show you are without compassion for those who wrong you, give the woman to the men.”
Mauveaux’s affections for Hester Boothe had already faded rapidly since her escape. He shrugged. “Comment non? I was going to do that anyway, of course. She will be no more than a common camp prostitute.”
“That is the way to be,” Fuentes said. “Do you wish to speak to the men now?”
“Call them together,” Mauveaux said.
Paco Fuentes first went to the most loyal bandits. Getting a half-dozen to follow him around, he visited each small campfire telling the outlaws there that their leader wished to speak to them. Most accepted the announcement quietly, only slightly annoyed at the interruption of their evening meal. Others were more hostile, but said nothing because of the escort Fuentes had brought with him.
One man, a big American named Scanlon, found the situation very interesting. When Fuentes came to his campsite, he spat into the flames. “What’s on the chiefs mind, Paco?”
“He’ll tell you, Scanlon,” Fuentes replied coldly. “You be there.”
Scanlon, over six feet tall, reached down and grasped Fuentes’ vest. “Ain’t you even gonna give me a hint, Paco? I’d hate to leave my supper and go all the way over there to hear something I ain’t inter’sted in.”
Fuentes pulled himself free. “You’re starting to talk muy grande, Scanlon. I would watch it, if I were you.”
“Well,” Scanlon said. “You ain’t me, are you, Paco?”
Fuentes knew a showdown was looming. He finished making his rounds, then returned to Mauveaux. He found his chief drinking more coffee and smoking a fresh cigar. Fuentes bent down and whispered in the Frenchman’s ear, pointing over to where Scanlon stood by the fire. Mauveaux listened intently, nodding in complete understanding.
Fifteen minutes later the survivors of the bandit gang were gathered around their leader’s campfire. Most squatted or sat down in the dirt, making themselves comfortable. The one noticeable exception was Scanlon. He stood tall and menacing, his arms folded across his massive chest, the expression on his face displaying contempt and arrogance.
Mauveaux calmly finished his coffee, then tossed the remnants of the cigar into the fire. He turned and walked toward his men. The bandit leader’s hand dropped to his pistol, and he drew it in a smooth, lightning-quick motion. He fired it twice, both bullets striking Scanlon.
The big American bent double, holding onto his slug-mutilated chest, then collapsed to the ground. One booted foot twitched several times, then was still.
Mauveaux calmly returned the pistol to his holster. “Now that I have your attention,” he said. “I will tell you of my plans for the next few days.”
All eyes were respectfully turned on el general.