Guns on the Border

Ten miles from Plaza Fuerte, Prew brought the riders to a halt on a tree-studded hillside fifty yards off the trail. As the column followed him and Cherokee Jake up the hillside, Ethan Crenshaw leaned in his saddle and said quietly to Bud Stakes, ‘‘It looks like I’m in big trouble now.’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ said Stakes, ‘‘and I hope I’m not in trouble along with you, for stopping to help Harkens.’’ As he spoke, he watched Prew’s back. ‘‘A man hardly knows what move to make around here. Anybody else I ever rode with would applaud helping a fellow who’s shot—but not so with this bunch. Prew looked like he was about half sour on the idea.’’

‘‘And look at me,’’ said Crenshaw. ‘‘All I did was hand a man some saddlebags to carry. Now I’ll be lucky if I don’t get shot and dumped along the trail.’’

‘‘Not trying to side against you, Crenshaw,’’ said Stakes, ‘‘but I learned long ago in Texas you never give the horseman any bags of money to carry.’’

Stakes continued as if he’d not heard him. ‘‘First of all, you know the horseman is going to be the last man leaving town. That means if he gets shot, there goes the money.’’

Stakes cut him off. ‘‘No buts to it. The other reason is you can’t watch behind you every second. The last man out can cut and run with the money without you knowing it till it’s too late. Which in this case he did, or they did—Russell and Kerr, that is.’’

‘‘Sure, I believe circumstances account for a lot,’’ said Stakes, the two riding up into the trees, at the center of the column.

‘‘But what I believe doesn’t matter,’’ said Stakes. ‘‘I ain’t the one who’ll blow your head off over it.’’

Behind them, Harkens chuckled, having overheard their quiet conversation. Looking back at him, Crenshaw growled, ‘‘What’s so damn funny, Harkens? I don’t recall you doing any laughing when we lagged back to save your ass from them wild-eyed Mexican townsmen.’’

‘‘Sorry, Crenshaw,’’ said Harkens. ‘‘I shouldn’t have laughed. But the fact is nobody is going to get shot over this. Hell, Prew needs good men to get things done down here. I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you.’’

Crenshaw looked at Stakes for confirmation. Stakes shrugged and said, ‘‘There you have it.’’

Crenshaw felt a little relieved. But his relief was short-lived. Upon entering the wooded hillside, Prew led the riders into a circle and came to a halt straight across from Crenshaw. ‘‘Boy, that was some wingding there for a while,’’ Crenshaw said, trying his best to force a smile through the worried look on his face. He raised his bulging saddlebags from his lap, having to use both hands, and heaved them to the ground.

Prew and Cherokee sat staring at him blankly. The rest of the men followed suit, not wanting to respond in any way that would offend Prew. Crenshaw said nervously, ‘‘I was just thinking, since I made what you might call a little mistake back there, why I don’t just take less of a cut than the rest of—’’

One of Prew’s big Colt saddle pistols bucked in his hand as the shot picked Crenshaw up and flung him backward from his saddle. He hit the ground doing back flips like some limp and mindless circus clown; then he lay facedown as still as stone. His horse bolted and raced away along the sloping hillside.

The men sat silent, watching, waiting, not knowing what to expect next. Prew said to Stakes, ‘‘Bud, take your rifle, put a few shots in his back, roll him over and do it again.’’

The big Colt bucked again. Stakes flew from his saddle, rolled and stopped flat on his bloody chest. ‘‘Oh Lord,’’ he groaned, trying to push himself up from the ground with both hands. ‘‘I’m a . . . mess here.’’ Before his horse could bolt away, Indian Frank Beeker jumped his horse forward, caught the animal by its reins and held it in place.

‘‘Harkens?’’ Prew said quietly, the Colt smoking in his hand. He jerked his head toward Stakes.

‘‘Yes, sir, right away, boss!’’ Harkens replied, his words running together in his haste. He yanked his rifle from its boot as he answered and levered a round into the chamber.

A hundred yards away, Dan Farr had caught up to the fleeing horse. He held its reins firmly as both his horse and the runaway reared at the sound of more gunfire. ‘‘My God! Are they killing one another?’’ he asked aloud, hearing shot after shot resound from the trees. He quickly calmed both animals and raced back to the others.

‘‘That settles everything,’’ Farr heard Prew saying as he hurried in leading Crenshaw’s horse behind him. Farr looked across the circle and saw Harkens tying down the heavy saddlebags he’d swung up onto his horse’s back. Then he stepped back, rolled both bodies over onto their backs and shot them some more. Rifle smoke loomed around him in a gray cloud.

‘‘Bud?’’ Farr said, staring at Stakes’ bullet-riddled body on the ground. The men sat staring in silence.

‘‘He’s some kin of yours if I’m not mistaken,’’ Prew said in a calm even tone. ‘‘Your brother, wasn’t he?’’

‘‘Huh?’’ said Farr, looking up from the body and over at Prew, who sat holding the big saddle Colt.

‘‘Whoa!’’ he said in shocked surprise. ‘‘Half brother! That’s all he was,’’ Farr said quickly, raising a hand as if to ward off any hasty response on Prew’s part. ‘‘We got along, Bud and me, but just barely. There was times I could have killed him myself.’’

‘‘So, I shouldn’t have to worry about you getting all whiskey-bent and wanting to take some revenge for me killing him?’’

‘‘Me? Over ole Bud here?’’ Farr looked amazed at the suggestion. ‘‘Naw, hell no!’’ He felt a sheen of sweat appear across his forehead. ‘‘Like I said, there was times when I wished I’d—’’

‘‘Yeah, yeah,’’ Prew said, cutting him off. ‘‘Let me ask you this. If I give you his share of the gold to take home to his family, say to a wife, a kid? You’d see to it they got it, wouldn’t you?’’

‘‘Would I? Well, hell yes I would,’’ said Farr with great commitment. ‘‘Just as sure as a duck pulls a worm, I’d take every cent back to Kansas and . . .’’

His words trailed to a halt as he looked around, hearing the sound of stifled laughter from the men. Looking back at Prew and seeing the big pistol slide down into a saddle holster, he let out a tense breath. With a face reddened by embarrassment, he gave a sheepish grin and said, ‘‘All right, I get it—you’re funnin’ with me.’’

‘‘Yeah, I’m only joking,’’ Prew said with a smug grin. ‘‘We wouldn’t ask that much of any man. Tie their horses to a tree where el capitán and his soldiers can find them.’’ He looked all around at the men. ‘‘It would look bad for him if every one of us got away.’’ He and Cherokee turned their horses and rode back toward the trail. The circle of riders followed behind them.

The ranger waited behind a tall rugged cedar at the top of the steep trail leading up the far end of the hill line. When he’d arrived, he’d dropped the saddle from Black Pot’s back, and for the past half hour he’d let the horses graze on sparse clumps of wild grass in the shade of a small meadow. He’d cleaned and checked his guns and taken a few minutes to rest himself. Then he’d taken cover behind the tree until Russell and Kerr led their tired horses into sight.

‘‘Stop right there,’’ he called out, stepping from behind the cedar into the center of the rocky trail. The two outlaws were clearly caught off guard as they stared back along the trail behind them.

‘‘What the—!’’ Thomas Russell exclaimed, his hand going instinctively around his holstered gun butt.

Kerr’s hand did the same. But seeing the ranger standing no more than thirty feet away, his Colt already out, cocked and pointed, the two froze.

‘‘Thomas Russell and Braden Kerr,’’ the ranger said in an officious tone, holding up his wrinkled list of names in his left hand. ‘‘You are both wanted in Arizona Territory for murder, robbery, forgery, land fraud, counterfeiting of American currency, destruction of a—’’

‘‘Damn it all to hell! We know what we’ve all done!’’ said Kerr, cutting him off. He dropped his horse’s reins and took a step farther away from Russell. ‘‘Prew already had us sold out!’’

‘‘Whatever you’re thinking about doing, Cur Dog,’’ said the ranger, ‘‘you best check yourself down and give it more thought.’’

Sam said, ‘‘You too, Hemp Knot. I’m taking you both in. Lift your hands away from your guns.’’

‘‘That damn Prew,’’ said Kerr. ‘‘He did trade us both for his bay horse. I reckon I always thought he would. This has been gnawing at us ever since you sent his horse to him.’’

‘‘Tell me something, Ranger,’’ Russell asked. ‘‘How did you and Prew manage to set us up this way? How’d you know we’d come up this trail?’’

‘‘The hell,’’ said Kerr. ‘‘Everything Prew does is a setup. That bank robbery back there. The military trains. Him and el capitán sets everything up.’’

The ranger wasn’t about to tell them how wrong they were about this being a setup. Instead he said, ‘‘Raise your hands away from your guns. We’ll talk more about it along the way.’’

‘‘We ain’t going back with you, Ranger,’’ Kerr said with resolve. ‘‘We’re not outlaws no more. We came here and changed our lives. We’re respectable mercenaries here.’’

‘‘Yeah, Mexico is our home now,’’ said Russell. ‘‘Your badge ain’t worth spit here.’’ As the two spoke they put a few more inches of space between themselves. ‘‘So, you and Prew can both go to hell. Your little trading plan didn’t work.’’

‘‘Don’t do it,’’ Sam warned, seeing in their eyes and their demeanor that at any second they would make a move on him.

‘‘Now!’’ shouted Russell. No sooner had Sam warned them than their guns came up fast from their holsters.

The ranger’s first shot hit Russell in the heart before he got his gun up to fire. The ranger’s second shot hit Kerr in the center of his chest just as Kerr sent a bullet whistling past the ranger’s head.

The ranger stood for a moment in a ringing silence, watching the two men fall backward down the hillside. Russell’s body slammed into a tree. Kerr slid down the rocky trail, his fingers clawing into the dirt. The two tired horses stepped back and forth nervously, but then settled and nickered under their breath.

Kerr moaned. His fingertips scratched the ground toward his pistol, only an inch out of reach. Sam stepped down and kicked the gun away. ‘‘Damn you, Ranger,’’ Kerr rasped, looking up at him in pain. ‘‘I could have . . . lived good on this gold.’’

‘‘Warned us . . . ha,’’ said Kerr, struggling for breath, blood pouring out of his wounded chest. ‘‘You never meant to take us in.’’ He gestured a weak hand in the direction Prew and his men had taken. ‘‘We heard the shooting. You and Prew were just . . . thinning the herd.’’

‘‘I had nothing to do with Prew,’’ said the ranger. ‘‘All I did was send him his horse and tell him I’d be coming for you and Russell. Everything else you thought about was all in your heads.’’

Looking down at Kerr’s blank eyes, Sam wasn’t sure how much the wounded man had heard before he’d died. But Kerr’s last words, ‘‘Thinning the herd,’’ had given him pause for a moment. He’d heard the two pistol shots and the repeated rifle fire earlier. Had that been Prew killing some of his own men, leaving a body or two behind for the federales just to make things look good?

The ranger thought about it as he turned to the two tired horses standing in the center of the trail. He loosened and dropped the saddlebags full of gold coins to the ground, then stripped the saddles and bridles from the horses and gave them a shove on their rumps. The horses only moved away along the hillside at a walk.

Without taking time to bury the two men, Sam dragged their bodies off into the brush. He carried both of the saddles in and tossed them over their faces. ‘‘That’s all you get today,’’ he said. Moments later he rode away back in the direction of the earlier gunfire, the bags of Mexican gold on the paint horse’s back.

On his way along the high trail he stopped once to look down and back along the flatlands toward Plaza Fuerte. Seeing the rising dust of many horses, he murmured to himself, ‘‘El capitán, no doubt.’’ Then he hastened his horses’ pace and rode on, in the direction of the earlier gunfire.

Over an hour later he stepped down where the bodies of Crenshaw and Stakes had been laid out side by side. A few feet away the dead men’s horses stood hitched to a tree. Cur Dog was right, he told himself. Prew had been thinning the herd.

Looking around, Sam led his two horses closer. Using his gloved hands he scooped half of the gold out of the mercenaries’ saddlebags and into his own. Then he swung the half-full saddlebags down from the paint horse and dropped them against the tree. He gazed back toward the distant rise of dust. Thinning the herd wasn’t a bad idea, he thought as he set about the task of loading the two bodies across their horses’ backs.