Guns on the Border

Inside the cantina, after a long swig of whiskey, Spivey corked the bottle and slipped it into his duster pocket. ‘‘That’s it for me,’’ he said to Prew. ‘‘I’m lighting out of here while there’s still enough daylight to get me down the hillside. He looked at Jefferies, who sat tied to a chair in the middle of the dirt floor, his battered face bowed over his bloody chest.

Beneath the sound of the men drinking and laughing, and the snappy whine of accordion music, Prew asked, ‘‘What’s your hurry? I thought you needed a couple of days for your horse’s leg to heal.’’

‘‘I did,’’ said Spivey. ‘‘But that was before I realized you’ve got lawmen sniffing at you.’’ He nodded toward Jefferies just as Loden stepped forward, took a handful of the battered man’s hair and raised his face. ‘‘I’m glad I could help, but now it’s time to say adios.’’ Spivey grinned. ‘‘When there’s a lawman around I break out in hives and itch and twitch something awful.’’

‘‘What about that good horse of yours?’’ Prew asked, as a loud backhanded slap from Loden sent Jefferies’ head bobbing sideways from its impact.

‘‘Indian Frank had an extra horse,’’ said Spivey. ‘‘We managed to dicker up a trade.’’

Prew nodded. ‘‘Then you have a good ride back. Tell Sherard I said, ‘Obliged’ and that he’ll be hearing from us real soon.’’

‘‘I’ll tell him,’’ said Spivey. He turned and sauntered to the chair where Jefferies sat struggling to remain conscious. Bending down, he grinned smugly into the bloody swollen face. ‘‘You try to have yourself a good evening in spite of its many pitfalls and obstacles, you hear?’’

Spivey chuckled and said to Prew, ‘‘He’s got a sense of humor, this one.’’ He thumped Jefferies on top of his head, like testing a ripe melon.

‘‘He won’t have any humor left when I’m through with him,’’ said Loden, rubbing the back of his sore hand as Spivey left the cantina.

At the bar Sonny refilled Cherokee Jake’s shot glass and said to him, ‘‘I’m glad you and me got things straightened out between us. It was him who killed your uncle Wind River Dan.’’ He jerked his head toward Jefferies at about the time Loden slapped the hapless lawman again. ‘‘Not that I saw it. But hell, he’s the one who had Dan’s horse when we took it from him. It had to be him who killed him. Who else?’’ He shrugged at the end of his lie.

Cherokee only eyed him closely for a moment before saying, ‘‘We’re going to let it ride that way for now, Sonny. If I get any other notions about it, I’ll be sure and let you know.’’

Sonny returned his stare, picked up his glass and his bottle of whiskey and moved away. Robert Koch saw what had happened and sidled up to Sonny as he found himself a new spot at the bar. ‘‘All this lawman did was buy us some time,’’ he said. ‘‘If we’re smart we’ll kill Cherokee before he guts us both, the way he did Sibbs. He’s fast and he’s sneak-in’ and we ain’t clear of him yet.’’

Looking toward the table where he knew Cherokee had killed Sibbs, Sonny said, ‘‘I know you’re right, Robert. Let’s watch one another’s backside until we can get it done.’’

In the middle of the floor, Sway Loden backhanded Jefferies across his face again, then stepped back rubbing his blood-splattered hand. ‘‘I knew something wasn’t right about this sonsabitch. I would’ve seen it soon enough.’’

At the bar Niger Elmsly called out, ‘‘Yeah? When? About the time he led all of us up onto a gallows and slipped a noose around our necks?’’

The cantina roared with laughter. Loden fumed at Jefferies, ‘‘Let’s see how you like the taste of gun metal!’’ Slipping his Colt from his holster, he drew it back to swing.

‘‘All right, Loden,’’ said Prew, ‘‘that’s enough for now. If you kill him, he’s of no use to us.’’

‘‘What use is he anyway?’’ Loden asked, checking himself down. He slid the pistol back into his holster with his sore and swelling gun hand.

‘‘I’ll be sure and consider your question before I make a decision,’’ Prew said coldly. ‘‘Meanwhile, keep breaking your hand on his face if you want to, but he lives till I say otherwise.’’

‘‘Sorry, boss,’’ Loden said sheepishly, backing away and working his stiff swollen fingers.

While Prew had turned toward Loden, Dan Farr stepped over beside Cherokee at the bar and said quietly, ‘‘Prew said if anybody asks about the four men who didn’t come back with us, we’re supposed to say they changed their minds and cut out. But what if that ain’t good enough?’’

Giving him a hard look, Cherokee said, ‘‘If that ain’t good enough, you tell them to come see me.’’ He thumped himself on the chest. ‘‘I’ll make sure it’s good enough for them.’’ Out of nowhere Cherokee’s big knife flashed in the dim light and plunged into the bar top. ‘‘You understand?’’

‘‘Whoa! Yes! Yes, I do!’’ Farr backed away quickly, shot glass in hand, and didn’t stop until he stood at the far end of the bar, able to keep an eye on Cherokee without being noticed.

Out front of the cantina Spivey had gigged his newly acquired horse up into a trot just to get a feel for the animal before heading down the winding trail. Satisfied with his trade after putting it through its paces for a half mile, he slowed the horse to a walk, patted its neck and took the bottle of whiskey from his duster pocket.

‘‘You’ll do,’’ he said to the animal. Pulling the cork from the bottle, he half turned in his saddle toward Esperanza and raised it in a toast. ‘‘Here’s to hope!’’ he called out, referring to the English translation of Esperanza. He took a long swig, then let out a deep hiss and said in a whiskey-dulled voice, ‘‘Hope you all go to hell and rot there!’’

He cackled with laughter, started to stick the cork into the bottle, but upon staring at the swirling amber liquid for a second he said, ‘‘Don’t mind if I do.’’ He raised the bottle in another toast, this one toward the darkening evening sky. ‘‘Here’s to you up there who wish me well—if you don’t you can go to—’’

His word stopped short. The ranger had him. Behind him in the saddle, Sam tightened his arm around his throat and jammed the tip of his gun barrel into his ear. ‘‘Rein him down, mister,’’ Sam said sternly.

‘‘Jesus!’’ Spivey shrieked. ‘‘Don’t shoot! I’ve got no money! You can have the horse, the saddle, my rifle! Hell, my boots! They’re almost new!’’

‘‘Slide down,’’ said Sam, already pulling him down from the saddle with him. ‘‘Who are you, mister?’’ he demanded. Sam pulled Spivey’s pistol from his holster and tossed it over beside the high trail. Spivey eyed the gun lying in the dirt.

‘‘Who am I?’’ He sounded surprised. ‘‘Is that why you waylaid me? You wanted to know my name?’’

‘‘Not if I have to ask you twice.’’ Sam made sure Spivey heard the Colt cock in his ear.

‘‘All right, take it easy. My name is Henry Akerman. I’m up here scouting for cattle.’’

‘‘Your name, mister. Quit wasting time,’’ Sam demanded, jamming the gun barrel more firmly.

‘‘It’s not Akerman.’’ Spivey let out a sigh in defeat. ‘‘You’re that ranger, ain’t you?’’

‘‘Yes, I am,’’ said Sam. ‘‘Now who are you? This time pick a name you can spell.’’

‘‘Don’t start,’’ Sam snapped. He pushed Spivey an arm’s length away. Spivey turned facing him with his hands raised chest high. ‘‘I know you came here to tell Prew it’s time to raid the munitions train,’’ Sam said, playing a hunch. ‘‘If you tell me who else is on Prew’s payroll and when the train comes through, you’ll ride away from here. If you want to be tight-lipped I’ll put a bullet in you and go on. That’s your only choices today.’’

Spivey took a step back toward the edge of the trail, hoping to get closer to his gun before making a leap for it. ‘‘All right, Ranger.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘I don’t owe Prew nothing. The train is running across the badlands in four days. Prew knows he’s got to hit it near Choking Wells at the water stop.’’

‘‘I already know the name of the other inside men working for Prew,’’ Sam said, bluffing. ‘‘But you tell me anyway. Don’t let me catch you lying.’’

‘‘Wrong name. So long, mister,’’ said Sam, poker-faced, knowing this one would try to lie first. He leveled the Colt at Spivey’s chest.

‘‘Wait!’’ said Spivey, seeing the ranger’s gun hand tighten. ‘‘It’s Sherard. His name is Ike Sherard!’’

Sam shook his head. ‘‘You’re lying when the truth could’ve saved your life, mister.’’

‘‘Wait, please, Ranger, for God sakes!’’ said Spivey, seeing the look on Sam’s face. ‘‘It is Ike Sherard. I swear it is! He used to be sheriff in Texas. Now he’s the rail station manager who handles all the military shipments running along the border! If that’s not the name you have, somebody has given you the wrong information!’’

‘‘Ike Sherard,’’ the ranger muttered to himself. It made sense. He’d heard of Sherard, seen him a couple of times; and lately he’d heard the man had gone over to the other side of the law. ‘‘Who’s the other?’’ he asked, not stopping until he had everything he wanted to know.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Spivey. ‘‘Some army sergeant. I’ve never been able to find out his name. Sherard won’t let it out who he is.’’

It stood to reason Sherard didn’t want anybody to know his contact, Sam thought. The name would come up when the time was right. That was Jefferies’ job. He let his gun hand relax a little, having bluffed the truth out of the belligerent outlaw. ‘‘Four days, you say?’’

‘‘Four days,’’ said Spivey. ‘‘And that’s the truth too.’’ He inched backward as he spoke. It didn’t matter that he told the ranger the truth, he thought. The ranger wasn’t leaving here alive. ‘‘But I don’t think it’s going to do you any good knowing it. You can’t stop it by yourself, and your partner is in no shape to help you.’’

‘‘Prew’s got him, Ranger,’’ said Spivey. ‘‘No point in denying it.’’ Spivey grinned slyly. ‘‘They’ve already beat the hell out of him. Your plan is out of the bag. Anything you didn’t want him to tell, he’s told by now.’’ He inched backward another short step as he spoke, seeing the news had hit the ranger hard.

Sam saw him turn and make a dive for the gun at the edge of the trail. He didn’t want to fire the Colt this close to town, but now he had no choice. He leveled the gun quickly. But he held up on firing as he saw Spivey’s dive send him sliding in the loose dirt, picking up the gun on his way, then failing to stop at the edge. Sam stood frozen for a second, hearing a long scream trail downward, then stop abruptly.

He walked to the edge and looked down. Spivey lay dead on a rock ledge eighty feet below, his black riding duster spread out around him, a startled look on his face. Sam shook his head and holstered his Colt. There was not a moment to spare. He had to get into Esperanza and get Jefferies out of there if he wasn’t already dead. Walking to Spivey’s horse, he took off its saddle and bridle and tossed them into the brush.

‘‘Get!’’ he said, slapping the horse on its rump. He realized how many horses he’d sent galloping off in the Mexican hills lately.

Riding in closer to Esperanza in the fading evening light, he observed the empty bell tower through his telescope from the cover of brush and low-standing juniper. With Prew and his riders back in town, he speculated that a night of drinking lay ahead. Yet, even with the tower unmanned and Jefferies’ life in question, he stayed put until after dark before slipping into town.

He left the two horses near the spot where he’d last met with Jefferies and walked quietly through the trees and foliage until he’d made his way to the dark empty street. In the bell tower he saw the glow of a cigar and realized someone had once again taken up the guard position. But that was all right. He intended to stick to the shadows behind the cantina, find Sabio and see what he had to do to get Jefferies out of Prew’s hands.

Following Jefferies’ directions to the third small adobe on the right in the alleyway behind the cantina, Sam eased up to an open window and looked inside. This was the place. Inside, Caridad and a stout older Mexican woman huddled in a circling glow of firelight at a small hearth. He saw the woman’s arms encircling Caridad, comforting her.

At a wooden table in the center of the dirt floor, Sabio sat bowed over the flame of a small candle, his fingertips to his temples as if in deep contemplation, or prayer. Looking all around the shadows in the dimly flickering firelight and seeing no sign of Jefferies, Sam whispered softly through the window, ‘‘Sabio. Sabio. It’s me, the ranger.’’

Sabio bolted upright in his chair, his face turned to the ceiling. His hands lifted into the air as if paying homage to heaven. ‘‘Oh, Ranger, yes! Yes, I hear you! Thank God I hear you!’’

Sabio turned quickly, facing him in the moonlight at the open window. Making the sign of the cross toward heaven, he collected himself, slipped from his chair and hurried to the window. He clasped the ranger’s gloved hand and squeezed it tightly, saying with tearful eyes, ‘‘I knew you would hear me. I knew you would come. I still have my faith!’’ His gaze steadied on Sam. ‘‘You did hear me, did you not?’’ he asked.

Sam only stared, having no idea what Sabio was talking about. The old priest waved it away. ‘‘It does not matter if you heard me or not. God heard me. Sometimes he goes about his will in strange mysterious ways.’’

Across the room Louisa and Caridad had heard the two men’s voices and moved closer to the window, watching and listening with the same awestricken looks on their faces.

‘‘See?’’ said Sabio, half turning toward the women, an arm gesturing toward the ranger as proof once again that his mystical power had worked.

Sam began to understand that the old priest had been praying for his return, but he had no time to dwell on the matter. ‘‘I need your help,’’ he said to Sabio.

‘‘Yes, of course, anything!’’ said Sabio, offering Sam a hand as he climbed in through the open window.

Sabio shrugged in shame. ‘‘Some would say my entire life has been a diversion of sorts.’’

Sam let his self-debasing remark pass. ‘‘Will these men allow you among them?’’ he asked, looking toward a straw sombrero hanging on a wall peg.

Looking toward the open hearth, Sam said, ‘‘It’s night and there’s a chill moving in. Let’s see what good we can make of that.’’