Ambush at Shadow Valley (25 page)

‘‘Oh, is she?'' Soto looked at him in surprise; so did Clarimonde.

‘‘That's right, she is,'' said Beck. ‘‘I'm in charge. She's been a working member of this gang ever since the job started. That means she takes orders like everybody else. I'm ordering her to ride with me. I want information she's got.''

‘‘Huh-uh, any information you get will come from me, when
and if
I feel like giving it,'' Soto said. ‘‘I made it clear from the beginning, this woman is with me.'' His hand was poised near his gun butt.

‘‘And I just made it clear she's not,'' Beck said with finality, leaving no pretense about what he expected this to turn into. He looked at Clarimonde, knowing that once he'd made this move, she would have no choice but to go along with it. She couldn't weaken and back down. ‘‘Move your horse away from him,'' he said to her, giving a jerk of his head. His hand lay also poised near the butt of his big holstered Colt. The men backed up their horses a step, watching intently. This was why Beck had wanted them to ride away without him. He'd intended to confront Soto one-on-one.

‘‘Here's how it lays down, Soto,'' Beck said as Clarimonde sidestepped the big paint horse, putting space between herself and Soto. ‘‘You've brought nothing but trouble to us. You're a no-good, murdering son of a bitch. Now that the job is done, I've held up my end of the deal. Take your gold and ride away, or slip leather and throw down, here and now. However you feel like playing it is good with me.''

Soto's face turned red with anger, then white with rage. He opened and closed his hand. But then, instead of making a grab for his gun, he managed to let go of a tense breath and ease down. A thin, tight smile came to his face as he relaxed his hand and pulled it away from his gun butt. ‘‘Over a whore?'' he said. ‘‘I don't think so, Memphis Beck. These men might act like it's between you and me, but that's for show. I bury a slug in your chest, they'll be all over me.''

‘‘You're right for once,'' Kirkpatrick said, pulling his riding duster back, uncovering his big Remington.

‘‘Stay out of it, all of you,'' Beck said evenly. ‘‘What happens here stays the way it is. Him or me.'' He looked at Soto. ‘‘That's as fair as I can make it.''

‘‘I gave you my answer,'' said Soto, backing his horse up a step. ‘‘You think this whore can mix you some nitro, make you some dynamite, or roll you some clay like I can? You're loco,'' he said. Slowly he turned his horse and rode away, without another word on the matter.

‘‘Well,'' said Beck, ‘‘I didn't intend for any of you to be here when I did that. But it had to be done anyway.''

The men sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Flannery said, ‘‘If you hadn't done it, one of us would have shot him sooner or later.'' He looked at Clarimonde and asked, ‘‘Ma'am, are you as good as he is, mixing explosives?''

Before she could answer, Beck cut in, ‘‘If she's not, do you want to call him back here and send her away?''

‘‘Hell no!'' Flannery grinned. ‘‘Begging your pardon, just curious, ma'am,'' he said, touching his hat brim toward Clarimonde.

The men laughed.

‘‘All right, get out of here,'' Beck said. ‘‘Get out of here, unless you want to stick around and give all this back.''

As the men disappeared, Beck looked at Clarimonde and said, ‘‘I'm sorry I had to do it that way. I know he's a killer, but it had to be done, else he'd own you the rest of your life.''

‘‘I understand,'' Clarimonde said.

‘‘When we get to Pierman's, you'll be free to go,'' said Beck. ‘‘I have to keep you with me until then in case you run into
federales
between here and where you're going.''

Clarimonde didn't answer; she couldn't right then. She gazed off in the direction Soto had taken, not trusting how easily he'd turned away.

‘‘Ready?'' Beck asked, riding over beside her. They booted their horses as one. In moments they were gone, the entire gang having vanished in every direction. The engine sat in silence on the rails, its engine metal cooling as the fire in its boiler burned out.

For an hour, Sam and Hector had followed the distant sound of the two explosions, the second explosion much less powerful than the first. From a hilltop overlooking the closed rail cut and the abandoned engine and rail car sitting above it, Sam scanned back and forth with his field lens and shook his head.

‘‘We must've just missed them,
Guardia
,'' he said to Hector who set his horse beside him and scanned the area with a battered field lens of his own.

‘‘But now we know for certain what the explosions were,'' Hector replied. He lowered his telescope, shrugged and added, ‘‘As if we didn't already know.''

‘‘Ever since Suelo Soto got his hand on some explosives, he's been a lot easier to follow,'' Sam said wryly.

Raising his field lens again, Sam saw the line of nine mounted men, seven of them
federales,
ride up into sight along a ridge running above the rail cut. ‘‘Here come two soldiers,'' he said, ‘‘a little late, but they didn't let the closed cut stop them.''

Sam noted the two Germans in white linen suits flanking the lead rider. One of them was mopping his wet brow with a handkerchief as he struggled to stay in the saddle. Adjusting the lens closer, Sam noted the other German's angry expression, his lips moving rapidly toward the young Mexican captain.

‘‘Somebody's catching it,'' Sam commented, watching the Mexican captain ride on, his face stoic, but his eyes ablaze.

‘‘It is not a good idea to push this man too hard in front of his troops,'' Hector replied, also having adjusted his lens for a closer look. ‘‘A man in charge of others must maintain his self-respect, no matter what he must do to keep it.''

‘‘I agree,'' Sam said quietly.

They watched as the captain led the men down a winding path to the engine and express car, the German never ceasing his scorching reproach of the young captain. Both Germans followed the young captain, as if taking turns hounding him as he looked down at the wagon tracks, then gathered his troops and rode off following them.

‘‘No, no,'' Sam said, as if they could hear him. ‘‘That's a trick. Don't fall for it.'' But seeing the riders continue on, he shook his head, lowered the lens and said to Hector, ‘‘They fell for it.''

"Sí
, they fell for it,'' Hector nodded, also lowering his lens in exasperation. ‘‘But at least it will keep them out of our way.''

The two turned their horses and rode back from the edge. ‘‘I hope so,'' said Sam. ‘‘We'll have enough to do figuring which tracks are Soto's and the woman's.''

‘‘Where do we start?'' Hector said, looking down at several sets of hoofprints going in every direction.

‘‘We look for two or more sets of prints that stay together,'' Sam said, looking back and forth, seeing where the gang had already broken apart, making any one of them hard to track. ‘‘This could cost us some time.''

On the rolling land below, the Mexican captain and his men had ridden out of the rail cut, leaving a flurry of dust behind them. They followed the buckboard tracks over a low rise until they spotted the team of horses standing at the edge of a thin stream, nipping at clumps of wild grass.

Raising his hand, the captain brought his men to a halt. ‘‘What are we stopping for, you imbecile?'' Herr Stienven demanded. ‘‘There sits the wagon with our gold in it! Go and fetch it back for us!''

‘‘It could be a trap,'' said Captain Guzman, ignoring the insult and waving his sergeant forward with his binoculars for a closer look.

‘‘It's not a trap!'' Stienven bellowed. ‘‘There is the gold and here are we! Let's get it before someone else steals it from under you!''

‘‘Stop shouting at this poor ignorant buffoon,'' Herr Stienven,'' said Frunhiem in a calm, restrained tone. ‘‘We will leave the shouting to Generalissimo Matissmo, when he hears that his nephew has lost the gold. Our friend the
capitán
here might find himself raised in the air and impaled on a sharp iron pole.''

‘‘Yes, indeed,'' said Stienven, ‘‘and if the generalissimo asks, I will personally suggest it to him.''

Guzman swallowed a hard knot in his throat, knowing the two Germans were right. ‘‘Sergeant Valdez,'' he asked quietly, ‘‘how does it look down there? Is this a trick, a trap of some sort?''

‘‘Capitán,''
the sergeant said sympathetically just between the two of them, ‘‘it is not a trap, but it is a trick. There is no gold in the wagon, only a load of large rocks.''

‘‘Large rocks?'' The captain looked stunned, then sick.

‘‘Rocks?'' shouted Steinven, hearing the young sergeant's words. ‘‘There is no iron pole too tall, or its point too sharp for you!'' he screamed at Guzman.

‘‘We will see to it, you die slowly for this!'' said Frunhiem. ‘‘You and all of these baboons who serve under you!''

The young sergeant started to turn toward the two Germans in a rage. But Guzman stopped him. ‘‘Sergeant,'' he said quietly and in an official tone, ‘‘send down two men to retrieve the wagon. Have them throw the rocks from it.''

‘‘An empty wagon?'' Frunhiem raged at him. ‘‘Is that what we will deliver to those who are waiting for the gold? An empty wagon?''

‘‘You saw inside the car,'' said Guzman. ‘‘There is much gold still there. We must protect it.''

‘‘Oh, now you must protect the gold,'' said Stienven, mockingly. ‘‘You ignorant fool! Now that two-thirds of it is stolen!''

‘‘I cannot wait to report your incompetence to the generalissimo!'' Frunhiem shouted, pounding his fist in his hand. ‘‘I hope he will allow us both to assist in impaling you!''

‘‘How much gold do you think is left in the car, Sergeant?'' Guzman asked while the Germans continued to rave.

‘‘I don't know,'' the sergeant replied. ‘‘A million, perhaps two? It is still a lot of money.''

Guzman looked back at his five mounted soldiers, all young peasant boys from the hill country. ‘‘More money than any of us will ever see in our lives?'' he asked quietly.

‘‘As I said, it is still a lot of money,'' the sergeant replied. Their eyes met and fixed knowingly on one another while Stienven and Frunhiem shouted at both of them.

Guzman reached down, unsnapped the flap on his holster, raised his big German pistol and shot Steinven squarely in the forehead. Before Frunhiem could respond with anything more than an openmouthed gasp, the young captain turned the pistol toward him, aimed and pulled the trigger again. The two Germans lay silent in death, a spray of blood splattered on the front of their white linen suits.

"'Uncivilized monkey,' eh?" Guzman spit down at the two bodies. ‘‘Now look at you.''

‘‘I thought they would never shut up,'' Sergeant Valdez commented quietly.

‘‘Me neither,'' Guzman said. Then he took a deep breath and said, ‘‘Send two men down for the wagon.'' Turning to the stunned men he called out in a jovial tone, ‘‘Good news, everybody! We have quit the army. Come let us draw our pay. We will all ride to Tejas!''

The young soldiers stared at one another; then as it dawned on them what Guzman had said, they shouted and laughed and gigged their horses forward, waving their hats in the air and spinning them away. . . .

In the distance, Sam and Hector heard the two gunshots, but they had only stopped for a second and looked back when they heard a weak, broken voice call out from a stand of white oak along a dry creek bed lying ahead of them.

‘‘Listen,'' Sam said to Hector, turning toward the sound. ‘‘Did you hear that?''

The two sat listening intently until the voice called out again, ‘‘Memphis . . . is that you? Help me . . .''

The two hurried forward, spreading out, wary of a trap. But as they spotted Earl Caplan lying bloody alongside the creek, they slipped down from their saddles and hurried to him, their Colts drawn and cocked. When Caplan saw it wasn't Memphis Beck coming to his aid, he cried out, ‘‘Get back, get away from me!''

Drawing closer, Hector slowed to a halt, crossing himself as he stared down at Caplan's decapitated right arm lying beside him.
‘‘Santa Madre,''
he whispered, crossing himself. Caplan turned loose of his sliced-open stomach; Hector saw his intestines lying piled beneath the gaping wound as Caplan tried reaching his holstered Colt with his blood-slick left hand.

‘‘Easy, Caplan,'' Sam said, recognizing him as he hurried down beside him as he untied and yanked his bandanna from around his neck. ‘‘It's Burrack. I'm not here to hurt you.'' As a precaution he slipped the Colt from Caplan's holster and pitched it away. Then he wrapped a quick tourniquet around the bleeding stub of Caplan's arm and tightened it down. The bleeding slowed, but didn't stop.

Kneeling beside the ranger, Hector took off his bandanna and handed it to him. ‘‘Keep watch for us,
Guardia,''
Sam told him. He wrapped Hector's bandanna around the stub and tightened it down also. On the ground not far from Caplan lay a straw sombrero and a bloody, discarded machete. Sam didn't have to ask who had wielded the machete. Instead he concentrated on stopping the blood.

‘‘They took . . . my gold, Ranger,'' he said, his voice sounding weak and distant, ‘‘those tattoo-headed . . . sonsabitches.'' In spite of his condition he managed an ironic chuckle and said, ‘‘Imagine . . . a thief like me . . . getting robbed.'' A fresh, thin fountain of blood spurted up from amid his intestines. Sam hurriedly closed the gaping wound and held it shut with his gloved hand. Blood still seeped out around his fingers.