The drum of the horses’ hooves counted cadence for the major as he galloped through the starlit night. Ride one and lead one gave him double horse power by him switching from one to the other. Earlier, he had found the coach, without any sign of the outlaw they’d left. He considered that Pablo might have found himself a wagon horse to ride off on.
Ahead, the seam of the sky in the east turned purple. A distant jagged peak to the left began to show in the first light as the sun raced across the saguaro-studded country side. He urged the horses on. They were too big to be comfortable to ride, but the animals had run hard all night for him. The two old Mexican saddles were little more than wooden horns and tapaderos to put his feet in, but he felt good when the green fields of the Indian corn and squash began to appear. He’d soon be at the Papago Wells station, and hoped to learn more about the outlaws there.
At the hitch rack, when the major drew up, he saw several skinny broomtail mustangs. He eyed the adobe station and saw nothing but some cur dogs heralding his welcome. The robbers wouldn’t know him on sight, but they might suspect a man riding one saddled horse and leading another sweaty one. Both animals were too hot to be allowed to drink. That would come later. Wary of someone coming out shooting, he reined the horses to the back. A sleepy Mexican came out of the shed, obviously taking a siesta in a hay pile, for he looked like a mattress with the stuffing coming out of it. His weather-beaten straw sombrero had been bitten by a horse or a mule, and had three chunks missing out of the floppy brim.
“Buenos días, senor.” Then the man blinked and his jaw
sagged. “You are riding the stage line’s horses?” Shock swept over his face and he looked ready to run.
“Shut up. I am a lawman. The men who robbed the Yuma stage last night are inside.” He handed the man the reins to both horses. “How many men are in there?”
“Four, I think.”
“Can we put that cart against the back door so they can’t get out?”
“I guess so.” He shrugged at the notion of wheeling the wooden cart against the back door.
“Tie these horses up and come help me.”
The major already had the shafts picked up when the man came shuffling over in his sandals to assist him. The sun was higher and the temperature was already way over a hundred and ten.
At first their straining did nothing, then the axles began to squeal like a stuck pig, only more in a moan, as they could barely make the cart roll. At last, the right wheel rested against the door, he dropped the shafts and nodded for the man to get some sticks of firewood for a block. The man hurried to complete the job.
Satisfied he had the outlaws locked inside, save for the front door because the windows were too small for anything but a snake to crawl out of them. He strode across the burning hot ground, jerked the rifle out of the scabbard, and told the man to tell the help and the old man to come outside and see the new kittens.
“But the banditos?”
“They won’t know what you are doing.”
“Oh, I hope you are right, señor?”
“Tell them one of the new kittens in the barn has two heads.”
“But what if the bandits they come?”
“Quit worrying. I’ll handle them.”
The man’s brown complexion paled, but he did as he was asked and went around front ahead of him. He hesitated at the door, then he went inside. There was much
Spanish thrown about, and soon a man in an apron and a woman came out with the horse hustler.
The stage workers blinked in disbelief at the major, who stood on the porch with the rifle ready. He shook his head to silence them and motioned for them to get out of the way. It would be darker inside. He hoped the shade of the palm frond cover on the porch adjusted his eyes enough for him to see when he stormed in. Quickly, he ducked through the doorway, firing a shot in the ceiling that brought down a cloud of dust. The gunpowder smoke made seeing impossible.
“Hands up or die!” he shouted, making a motion with his gun barrel for them to go outside. The coughing outlaws came stumbling by him with their hands high. They grumbled, but he used his free hand to jerk loose their sidearms and dropped their hardware on the ground. Satisfied they were disarmed, he waved the bandits into the sunshine, forcing them to look east and have the brightness in their faces. Eyeing his prisoners carefully for any tricks, he edged behind and swept off their sombreros to further expose them. He removed a remaining visible knife or two, tossing the cutlery aside.
“What is wrong, señor?” the best dressed one asked.
“You are under arrest for armed robbery of a stage and murder.” He stepped back satisfied he had the matter under control. “Someone go get some rope.”
“Sí,” the horse hustler agreed, and took off.
“These men robbed the stage and killed the driver, Billy?” the Mexican man in charge of the station asked.
“Yes. Last night,” he said, then looked to the west at the sound of approaching riders. More robbers? he wondered, watching their dust. He could only make out their Chihuahua-style sombreros. “Who is that?” he asked the station man.
“Don Robles’s men from Sonora. The man who leads them is Delgado.”
“What do they want?”
“These men you have arrested.”
He recalled talking to the same man before he left there on the stage. Some sort of Mexican lawman or bounty hunter. The leader pulled up the high-stepping black stallion before him.
“Ah, señor, we meet again, and you have captured these miserable wretches who were spawned by cur bitches with mangy coyotes for fathers.” The confident-acting man leaned on the saddle horn and smiled.
“They’re under arrest,” the major said.
“Ah, for what, señor?”
“Robbery and murder.” Sweat lubricated his hands on the stock of the rifle. He wanted to dry them, but did not dare.
“You are the sheriff here?” Delgado looked around as if searching for some post of authority.
“I am the chief marshal of the territorial marshals.”
“Oh,” the man said, acting impressed. “You have many more men?”
“Yes,” the major said with force, but knew his bluff would soon wear thin.
“Let me have these bastards. I will save Arizona the trouble of feeding them and do it as a favor because you captured them for me. All, but one …” Delgado searched around.
“He’s dead. I shot him last night.”
The man turned back and nodded in approval. “Shame you didn’t kill the rest.”
“These men are my prisoners.”
“You know, amigo, you and I could improve the relations between Mexico and Arizona today.”
“By giving you the prisoners? No, I don’t think so.”
“Ah, mi amigo, think how the good man who runs this place and his wife and his hired man could be killed in the shooting. They are innocent. These worthless ones no one would cry for, but you and these others are good people. My men,” he said, gesturing to the three armed riders, “they have wives and many children. They are always busy. They keep their wives pregnant. If your bullets kill some of them, those little ones would go hungry.”
“You’d be the first to die.”
“Ah, yes, but my men would kill you.” Delgado pushed his sombrero to the back of his head. His rich curly hair shone in the sun.
“We have a standoff,” the major finally said.
“Let me have the prisoners to take home. They will not come back to rob any more stages.” Delgado crossed himself. “I swear on my holy mother’s grave.”
“But you have no authority here.”
“My authority is four guns to your one and the innocent people at this place.”
He heard the man’s challenge. It didn’t give him much time to consider his options. The three stage line employees were the pawns in this game of standoff. Despite his own convictions that the prisoners were his, he couldn’t risk three civilian lives over four worthless felons. One more thing he wanted from this man.
“Sign a paper for me that you took them.” At least he would have some evidence of the incident to explain to the stage people and the Arizona law.
“I will do that.”
“Fine, go get paper and pen,” he said to the woman, and she hurried off.
When she returned, the major handed her the rifle and used the saddle of the first pony to write on.
“What are their names?”
“Pablo Martinez, Regino Salleras, Gordo Valdez, and Nero Rico.”
The major finished the list, walked over, held out the paper, and Delgado dismounted. He read the letter or he scanned it anyway, then signed his name at the bottom in flowery penmanship, Juan Cortez Delgado.
He remounted his black and motioned for his men to take the prisoners. Delgado’s men began to talk to one another, but still looked warily at the major as they tied the prisoners’ hands. Soon the bandits were bound and mounted.
Delgado rode over on his black to where the major and
the three employees stood under the palm frond shade.
“I can ever help you in Mexico, call on me, señor. You are a tough old man, and a good man, too. Adios, amigos.” He touched his sombrero and they left riding southward through the desert for the border.
No way to ever catch them. The major squinted against the heat waves as they fled. Sick to his stomach, he turned when the thick-set woman handed him the rifle.
“Gracias, señor. You saved our lives.” Then she waddled back inside. He shook his head to clear it. That was why he didn’t fight with Delgado, for her sake and the other two men. He’d had his chance to die and decided he better stay alive and fight another day.
“I am sending to Tucson for a buckboard to take you to Yuma. The woman?” the stage manager asked.
“She’s fine. She’s at the station west of Gila Bend.”
“Good. My boss in Tucson would be very mad if they had killed her, too.”
“She’s fine.” Then he laughed aloud and clapped the little man on the shoulder. His slap raised a cloud of alkali tasting dust from his shirt. “Sorry about the hole in the roof.”
“It don’t rain much here,” the man said, and shrugged as if it was a fact of life for him.
“No, it don’t,” he said, and sighed. He still had a prison contractor scandal to resolve. He took the cup of coffee from the woman and nodded. More work left to do in Yuma before he could go home to his cool house in Prescott. Whew! He wiped his gritty forehead on his sleeve. This marshaling had turned into some job.