Chapter 27

He was hot and tired, and dust clung to the sweaty stubble on his face, but he’d finally found Ramon Sandoval. It had been a month of discreet inquiries, and the trail had led them zigzagging across the length and breadth of Mexico, but he and Romero, working separately, then together, had managed to find him. And Alessandro Sandoval was there also.

Now he was ready to move in and take them both if he had to. While Romero snatched a nap on the hard, pebble-strewn ground, Clay sat, his back against a rock, cleaning his shotgun, his mind on Amanda. He’d been thinking about her a lot ever since he left the Ybarra. No, it was more than a lot—she was in his thoughts all the time, haunting his dreams, plaguing his waking hours, tearing at him with every breath he took.

Long before he hit the Rio Grande on his way down, he’d done a lot of thinking, and he knew he’d been a fool to ever believe that he could forget her. And he knew too that he couldn’t stand it if she married Hap—or anybody else for that matter. Maybe the realization had come too late, but once he got Sandoval, he was going to ride hell for leather back to her, and he was going to grovel at her feet, if that was what it took to win her back. And if by some act of God’s mercy, she was brought to forgive him, he was going to marry her, even if he had to convert to Catholicism to do it. And then he was going to do his damnedest to see that she never regretted loving him.

He might not have John Ross’s money or Isabella Ybarra’s aristocratic breeding, but he was a hard worker, and if given half a chance, he was determined to make her proud of him.

It had taken him weeks to write the letter of his life to her, but he’d finally posted it in Durango. In it, he’d tried to explain how overwhelmed he’d been by the ranch, how he’d felt she would come to regret trying to take him into her world, how he’d felt there wasn’t any place for him there. He’d poured his heart out in that letter, and now he could only hope she’d forgive him. That she’d understand how afraid he’d been of being tamed, of changing his whole way of life for her. That it had been hard giving up his past. Well, he’d written it, and by the time he got back, she’d have it.

When he saw her, he’d look in her face and have his answer. And for the first time in his adult life, he was afraid, not of taking a bullet not of dying alone, but of losing the only woman he’d ever want for his wife. What was it that Henry IV of France had said? That Paris was worth a Mass. He understood that now. Amanda Ross was worth his freedom.

He flexed tired shoulders, then glanced at Rios. Poor Romero. He was a lot like Amanda in that he didn’t like living off the land. But where she’d been pretty game about it, Rios wasn’t. From the outset he’d announced he didn’t eat raw meat of any kind, nor would he take rattlesnake, no matter how it was cooked. He’d even balked at the armadillo, saying if God had wanted man to eat such things, he wouldn’t have given it a coat of armor. Instead, he starved himself between towns, then gorged himself when he hit the cantinas.

He reached over and slapped Romero’s rump. The young ranger rolled over and came up with his gun. “Oh, it’s you,” he mumbled.

“I made some coffee.”

Rios glared at him. “I don’t want any.”

“It’ll put hair on your chest.”

“The hard way.” Suit yourself.

Romero passed a weary hand over his face, then yawned. “I could have slept all day.” Then he glanced down, seeing the scorpion crawling up his pants leg. He grabbed the pan of coffee and dashed it over his leg, nearly scalding it. The scorpion’s tail twitched, then fell into the dirt, where it jerked around in a circle before dying. “At least the stuff’s good for something,” he muttered. “Maybe you could sell it for poison or weed killer.”

“I figured we go down for Sandoval about siesta time,” Clay explained, ignoring the barbs.

Romero looked down at the hacienda below. “How many do you figure there are?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe not to you, but I’d like to have an idea.”

“They know we’re after them, anyway, so the only surprise we’ve got is the time.” Reaching for his spyglass, Clay adjusted it, then trained it on the house. “Yeah, they’re there, all right. The fancy boy’s Ramon—and if I had to guess, I’d say that’s Alessandro standing behind him,” he said, handing the glass over.

Rios fanned it over the whole area, counting. “Looks like the two of them and five others that we can see.”

“There’ll be some in the house.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Romero exhaled his resignation. “That only makes the odds four or five to one, huh?”

“Easy pickings, as Hap would say it.”

“I’m not Hap,” the younger man pointed out. “I’m just wondering how we get them out of there without putting the whole country on our tails. If it was up to me, I’d take my Sharps and just shoot ’em from here, then make a run for it.”

“It’s not—and I want Ramon to know what’s happening to him. I want him to know it’s because of what he did to Amanda.” “If you want to kill him, I’ll tell Hap he drew on you,” Rios offered.

“If we get the drop on the old man, the rest of ’em won’t put up much of a fight. But to make sure, I want you to tell ’em in Spanish that I don’t have any quarrel with them—that all I want are the Sandovals.”

“All I can say is I’ll be damned glad when I cross the Rio Grande.”

“This is your country, remember?”

“Not since ’36. I was born in Texas.”

“You complain a whole lot more than Amanda Ross.”

“I guess I don’t love you,” Romero countered, lying back down. “Wake me up when you’re ready. Until then I don’t want to think about it.”

Nothing was stirring except for the flies. They were everywhere. That was the thing about flies—if there was anything to eat, they’d find it. Clay swatted one that landed on his arm, then he leaned over to shake Rios.

“Come on—let’s go. As near as I can tell from the glass, there aren’t many in the house—the Sandovals and a couple of women, I think. The others are in the bunkhouse behind.”

“Huh?” Rios passed a hand over his eyes, then squinted up at the sun. “Yeah, I guess it’s time,” he agreed.

Clay handed him a canteen. “Splash your face—you’ll feel better.”

“God, but I’m tired.”

“Three days and you’ll be across the border.”

“Five days and you’ll be at the Ybarra.”

“Uh-huh.” Clay picked up the shotgun and started for the paint mare.

“You’re going to give up your badge, aren’t you?” Romero murmured behind him.

“Yeah. I figure I’ve had all the luck I’m going to have, and it’s time to move over and let somebody like you have my moccasins.”

“What are you going to do if she won’t have you?”

Clay hesitated before swinging into the saddle. “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. But first I’m going to get Sandoval.”

“Sort of like ‘bring me the head of Ramon Sandoval,’ eh?”

“He tried to kill her.”

Romero had his answer then. There was no way Clay McAlester was going to let the younger Sandoval live long enough to reach Texas. And he didn’t blame him, not one bit.

It was the heat of the day, and there was no sign of life as they approached the hacienda where the fugitives had come to hide. A small dust devil whirled across barren ground, then disappeared. In the corral several horses stood clustered against a small adobe building, trying to find what little shade it provided. One raised his head, and his nostrils twitched as he caught the scent of them.

It was a small house for men like the Sandovals, a real comedown from the Ybarra. But that made it easier—once inside there weren’t many places anybody could hide. Keeping to the back of the squat adobe building that served as a bunkhouse, they dismounted.

“Cover the door, and shoot the first man who tries to come out,” Clay ordered.

“You’re going in there alone, amigo?”

“I don’t see any more of us.”

Leaving Romero, Clay moved around the side of the house, keeping close to the wall as he approached a window. When he looked inside, he could see the naked back of a man riding a woman so hard that the bedposts rocked noisily on the hard-packed floor. He’d found Ramon.

He came around the corner, then tried the door. It gave way, creaking inward. He gripped the shotgun and slipped inside. He could still hear Ramon taking his last ride, but now he had to find the father. The soles of his moccasins made no sound as he crossed the main room toward the arched door on the other side. He caught a glimpse of white shoulder, and heard the soft, melodious voice of a woman coaxing the man straining beneath her. Like father, like son, he guessed.

He went back to the younger Sandoval, easing his way to the door. Clay swung around the opening, leveling the shotgun on him. Ramon was too busy to notice. Clay moved closer, jamming the barrel against the younger man’s bare back.

“Now you come off real easy,” he said softly. “Otherwise, your guts are going to be all over her.”

The girl’s eyes widened, first in disbelief, then in terror. Panicked, she struggled to crawl out from under Ramon, who seemed to have frozen.

“Get over against the wall,” Clay told her. Going to the foot of the bed, he pulled off a dirty sheet, then tossed it toward her. “Cover yourself.”

Ramon’s mind raced, assessing his chance of getting away. It was as though the ranger read his mind.

“I wouldn’t try it,” Clay drawled. “You just get down without pulling anything funny, and we’ll go get your father together—savvy?”

“Papa!” the younger man cried out. “Papa, they’ve found us!”

At that, Clay grabbed his hair and slammed his head into the wall. Ramon slumped as he caught him with his free arm. Dragging the junior Sandoval, he came out ready to shoot. But Alessandro, on hearing his son’s warning, went out the window, leaving a cowering woman behind. Still holding Ramon, Clay gained the door in time to let one barrel go. Too far away to kill the old man, he nonetheless got him. Blood spattered the sallow skin where the buckshot hit.

Alessandro went down, rolling naked in the dirt, wailing he’d been shot. Grim-faced men watched from the bunkhouse, while Rios kept them covered. His eyes on the doorway, the younger ranger moved to where the old man wept. Leaning down, he pried a revolver from Alessandro Sandoval’s hand, then tossed it out of reach.

Clay turned his attention to Ramon. “It’s your turn,” he said silkily.

“No! It wasn’t me!” Ramon cried. “I didn’t do it!”

“I brought Amanda Ross back to the Ybarra. Don’t tell me you didn’t do it—you left her out in the desert to die. She’s alive, Ramon—she lived to tell what you did to her.” Clay’s voice was soft, menacing.

The boy’s eyes darted to where Alessandro had managed to sit up in the dirt. “Papa, tell him—tell him it wasn’t my idea!”

“Shut up!” the old man shouted at him. “Shut up!”

“Killing’s almost too easy for you,” Clay went on. “Maybe I ought to just take you out and leave you, huh? How would you like to crawl through rattlesnakes and scorpions. I guess if you got lucky, they might make it quick. Otherwise, you could do what she did—you could walk for miles without water.”

“No! It wasn’t me, I tell you! I never wanted to do it!”

“You went back once to put a bullet in her.”

“I didn’t want to do it—he made me do it!” Ramon cried tearfully.

“Shut up!” Alessandro screamed. “Don’t be a fool! It’s just your word against hers!”

“But I’m not going to let you get to court, Ramon,” Clay whispered. “So if you’ve got anything to tell me, you’d better say it now. There isn’t any tomorrow—I’ve got every one of them in this gun.”

“Papa, tell him—tell him it was you who wanted her dead! Please, Papa, please! He’s going to kill me!”

“He won’t do it—it would be murder!” the old man yelled at him.

“I don’t have to leave any witnesses, Ramon.”

The younger Sandoval closed his eyes and swallowed. “Please,” he choked out, “it wasn’t me, I tell you.”

“You’ll have to do better than that. Your father didn’t take Amanda Ross out there. Your father didn’t leave her.”

“He said I had to do it. He said if she wouldn’t marry me, she had to die.” Ramon swallowed again. “After the Comanches got Gregorio, Isabella wanted Papa to leave.”

“Ramon!”

“Go on.”

“We took her out into the desert, just like with Maria. There wasn’t anybody to know. And when we went back, the animals had eaten her. There was nothing but bones and a few pieces of her clothing. It was easy to say the Comanches had taken her.”

“You sniveling bastard—you worthless idiot,” Alessandro fumed. “You should have brought the girl to me. You weren’t smart enough to do it right.”

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

“Sorry! Before it was attempted murder, but you couldn’t wait to tell everything,” the old man told him contemptuously. “Now you have put a noose around your neck and mine.”

Clay and Romero Rios exchanged glances, then Romero went into the bunkhouse, leaving the old man within a few feet of his gun. Clay turned to Ramon.

“Get inside,” he ordered curtly.

Even as he said it, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Counting silently, he waited until he was sure, then he spun around as Alessandro cocked the revolver. He squeezed the Whitney’s other trigger. The full blast ripped a hole the size of a cantaloupe in the old man’s chest. A look of stunned incredulity crossed his face as he fell backward.

“Papa! You’ve killed my father!”

“He threw down on me.”

“He didn’t have a chance! Papa!” Dodging Clay, Ramon fell on his father’s body, sobbing. “Papa, I didn’t mean to tell him!” he cried. He looked up at Clay. “You murdered him!”

“If anybody throws down on me, one of us is going to die.”

But as he lay over Alessandro’s body, Ramon felt the cold steel of his father’s pistol under his bare skin. And he knew the ranger had discharged both barrels of his shotgun. He pressed his mouth against Alessandro’s unresponsive lips as his fingers found the trigger.

“For you, Papa,” he whispered.

He rolled over and came up shooting, his bullet going wide of his mark. He never got the chance to fire another. Clay’s Colt .45 blazed, and the impact of the shot as it hit the younger man’s heart turned him around. He pitched facedown in the dirt.

Rios came out, gun still in hand. “Me and the boys in there have been talking, and we’ve sort of agreed that they didn’t see anything.”

“Oh?”

“Uh-huh. And now that he’s not paying them, they’d just as soon move on—if that’s all right with you.”

“I don’t care. I got what I came after.”

Clay walked over where the two bodies lay, and as he looked down, he couldn’t help remembering what they’d done to Amanda and her mother. He felt a surge of anger that they’d never feel the terror that the two women had felt, that they’d never suffered the terrible thirst, the heat, the relentless sun that had nearly taken Amanda’s life. But he could still get even for her. Taking out his Bowie knife from his belt, he grasped Alessandro’s hair and ripped it back with the blade. Moving to Ramon Sandoval, he did the same. He wiped the bloody knife on his buckskin leggings, then sheathed it. Coming back, he picked up his shotgun. The Mexicans who’d come out of the building stared at him as he walked by.

Rios looked at the bodies, then back at the Mexicans. “¡Ándle—muy pronto!” he told them. They didn’t wait to be dismissed twice. To a man, they made a run for their horses. As the dust kicked up behind them, Rios caught up to Clay. “Why’d you scalp them?” he asked.

“I didn’t want either of them going to heaven.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Clay swung up into his saddle, then shrugged. “A man can’t go into the great beyond without his scalp.”

“I don’t think they were going anywhere but hell anyway,” Rios murmured, stepping into his stirrup. “But who am I to judge?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll never get that blood out of those buckskins,” he added.

“I reckon I’ll be throwing them away, anyway.”

And as he clicked the reins, turning the paint mare northward, he felt an immense relief. It was over, all over. Now all he had to do was convince Amanda Ross she still wanted him for a husband. It was a tall order, but somehow, some way, he was going to do it.