Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel (4 page)

The leader turned and galloped away, whipping the stallion, zig-zagging in an effort to get out of range. The other, a big hairy chested half-breed with two pistols stuffed in his belt, picked himself up. He glared at the
gringo
thirty feet away.

Juan quickly reloaded and drew a bead on the man’s chest, but held his fire. What would the
gringo
do? If smart, he would kill the foolish man without mercy.

The
gringo
stood slowly erect, leaned his rifle against the boulder protecting his fort, and then stepped forward. He was very tall, over six foot four, maybe even seven feet, big and broad shouldered. The man was certainly two full heads taller than his opponent. The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Then, in a flash, the half breed pulled both of his pistols. One would have been faster, and he should not have had them tucked so securely in his belt.
Estupido!
But, even then, the man was very fast and Juan assumed for a brief instant that he would win. But the
gringo
had turned sideways to present a narrow target and dropped smoothly into a crouch, his movements without hitch. His big hands and impossibly long arms were a blur of flame and smoke.

BOOMBOOMBOOM
.

Madre de Dios
.

Juan was stunned. The
gringo’s
reflexes were incredible, his draw lightning fast. The fastest Juan had ever seen from a man so large. Before the hairy rider had cleared his pistols from his belt, he was dead, three closely grouped bullet holes in his chest.

Juan stepped back from the edge of the cliff and released his breath in a rush. He looked out to see that the leader of the now dead
Comancheros
had ridden out of the
gringo’s
range. He could have continued riding away, but stopped and began yelling, waving his fist in the air. A foolish move.

“Well,
gringo
, he may be out of your range, but he’s not out of mine.”

Juan adjusted the folding-ladder sight on his long barreled Sharps, estimated distance at four hundred yards and reminded himself to fire low to compensate for the downward trajectory. He dropped to one knee, braced his elbow on the other, took careful aim and squeezed.

The shot echoed across the canyon, bounced off the far valley wall and came back to him several times. His ears rang. It always seemed louder when a shot was deliberate, not in the heat of battle. He lowered the rifle and waved away the smoke. He knew the shot was true, but the rider had not responded to the impact. He stepped off the stallion, stood for a few seconds looking down at his chest, then sagged to the ground like a pair of pants with no one in them.

Juan did not cross himself. He clenched his teeth and swore. The man deserved to die. Now, for the stallion. It was frightened, running in circles around its dead rider. Juan would have to get down quickly before it ran off to the river, but he’d better be careful. No telling how the
gringo
would react.

Juan was afraid of no man, but was possessed of very good sense. The man below was honorable, brave, and exceedingly dangerous. Juan would not enjoy killing him, but he would have that horse at all cost.

CHAPTER 3

The dead pistolero’s pupils had disappeared far into his forehead, the whites now praying to the bright blue sky. Mobley stood over him, legs wide and stiff. He would have collapsed to the ground himself, his knees were shaking so, but his mind was on another plane. Replaying the duel, wondering if it had actually happened, knowing that it had, but finding it difficult to believe and wondering why he had been so stupid as to stand up and allow the man any kind of chance.

Certainly, had it been up to the dead man, he would have been shot down without mercy. But that is what separates the good from the bad, the honorable from the dishonorable, or was it? What good would it do for the good to be dead? What good would it do for the world to allow men such as this to prowl about with impunity, taking every courtesy as an opportunity to take advantage?

Grandmother Featherheart had told him a thousand times, to be good you must do good. And a man who does not practice goodness and charity to others does not deserve the love of the Lord. Grandfather Angus, of course, would nod at these sentiments and secretly tell Mobley that it was all right to be good to those who deserved it, but to keep close watch on those whose honor he had not seen for himself.

Mobley had tried to learn, but always had trouble figuring whether one person was good and another bad, whether one man had honor and deserved respect, or needed to be eliminated from the human race. The problem was that people did not always follow precise patterns. Some were good most of the time, bad at another. Some were bad most of the time, good at another. How to deal with such folks?
Wild Eye Sagan,
his law teacher and mentor, had once said laughingly that you should just kill ‘em all and let God sort them out, but Mobley knew he could never bring himself to do such a thing, nor, he suspected, could have Judge Sagan, wild eye or not.

Mobley’s knees felt as if they were made of tule reed, unsubstantial and liable to collapse at any moment, but another jolt of fear fired them into action. There was still danger, someone left who must be dealt with.

Turning, like a wobbly spindle top, he wound his way back to the sparse cover of his boulder and snaked himself around as best he could so he could fire up at the cliff without in turn presenting too much of a target. Whoever had fired from there was still in position to shoot down on him. It might have been one of the Indians who had tried to flank him. Several shots had been fired and one of the Indians had been blown over the cliff. Maybe the other had decided to change sides after their leader shot the wounded man. The only other explanation was that someone had been up there all along.
The smoke
. He had thought he’d seen smoke at the top of the cliff just before he’d made it to his fort.

Whatever the situation, Mobley could not assume the danger was over. Snatching up his rifle, he quickly reloaded it, and then his pistol. He looked out again to the man he’d killed in the duel. A big, brave, hairy man whose luck had run out. But he shook his head at his own stupidity. Why had he stood up? Why had he given the man a chance to kill him? It didn’t make sense, but like Angus had said many times, nothing ever did make sense in the heat of battle. His blood had been up, his brain on automatic. The man had challenged him. His rifle had been empty. In that brief instant of challenge he’d been unable to do anything else.

He scanned the top of the cliff again, ready to continue the battle. Whoever was up there was a very good shot. The last man killed had been at least four hundred yards away. A
Yellow Boy
Winchester, such as the ones carried by his attackers, would not have carried that far with any kind of accuracy; more so even than Mobley‘s new 44-40 Winchester. No, the man above had used a large caliber rifle. That would account for the big noise, all the smoke.
A Buffalo hunter?

Mobley scanned the rim again. If he could cross to the other side of the canyon, he’d be less of a target.

It was at least fifty yards, but there were boulders he could duck behind as he moved. If he got to them safely, he might make a run for it. His horse, Meteor, had pulled her rein from the brush where he’d picketed her and drifted near the far wall of the canyon. She was nuzzling a stand of cattails, carefully licking salt from the razor edged stems. She seemed oblivious to everything else.

He took a deep breath. His mouth was dry and still tasted of metal and bitter smoke. He ducked and bounded forward, leaping the last few yards to the first decent boulder twenty yards out. No firing. He looked up. Nothing.

Another deep breath and he was off again. This time the rock was much smaller and he found himself spraddled flat on the ground, face almost in the shallow water of the creek. He would have lapped some up had it not reeked of decayed moss and algae where it flowed around the rock.

One more quick scramble and he found himself panting against the far cliff a few feet from Meteor. She turned toward him, snorted cattail fluff from her nose, and returned to her careful attack on the rushes.

Safe for the moment, Mobley reached for his canteen tied to the saddle horn. He took a long drink. From the saddle bag he pulled a piece of hard candy and popped it into his mouth. Now,—wait. Be ready to run or fight.

* * *

Juan’s horse wobbled in its tracks as he led it down the steps of the escarpment. Prairie grass was not particularly nutritious, and for an animal constantly on the run, it was completely inadequate. Juan dismounted well before he came upon the
gringo
, to give the horse a rest and appear friendly as he approached. The animal was no doubt grateful, but died anyway. Its front legs gave way first, its rump sagged sideways, and it fell over. A grunt, one last hard blow, and it became still.

Juan felt sick as he looked at the dead horse and considered all it had meant to him. “You have served me well,
caballo
, but could you not have lasted a few minutes more? Good grass and water not a hundred feet away and you
die?
What will the
gringo
think of me, letting my horse die of starvation?”

Juan slumped cross-legged on the rocky ground, stared at the animal and lovingly stroked its head. He’d not given it a name. His friend Ramon had laughed at him when he’d first suggested naming the horse, saying you don’t give a name to an animal you may have to eat. Still, it had served him well and even if he had been one inch from death, he would not have, could not have eaten it.

He had stolen this horse five years before during a raid on Palo Verde, near Saltillo. The whining old patron from whom he had taken it had cried, screamed and threatened as Juan rode away. The next thing Juan knew, Mexican troops were harassing his band. No longer mere bandidos, they had somehow become
revolutionarios.
The troops swore they would capture or kill them all. But this
caballo
was so fast it could outrun the best of the animals ridden by the soldiers. It had saved Juan’s life many times.

Swearing softly, Juan crossed himself and rose awkwardly, his malnourished legs cramping in protest. He turned, narrowed and shaded his eyes to examine the man now emerging from the canyon. Juan clenched his teeth and uttered a barely audible warning. “Gringo, you’d better not get between me and that black stallion.”

* * *

Mobley stepped carefully from his position against the cliff wall, keeping his eye on the stranger while trying not to look obvious. He reached for Meteor’s rein, missed his first attempt and felt foolish waving his hand blindly about until he had the leather of it in his hand.

The man did not appear threatening, but still, one never knew. Of medium height and skinny as a rail, the man held a long rifle in the crook of his arm as he looked down on his fallen horse. His face was dark, with emotion rather than race, Mobley judged, with lips a thin line under a mean looking mustache. He was obviously in distress, perhaps angry, but more likely because of the death of his horse. He made no threatening moves.

Mobley straightened his back, adjusted his pistols in the wide double wrapped cloth belt at his waist, and nodded almost imperceptibly, acknowledging mutual eye contact. In a gesture of peace, he turned and shoved his rifle back into its saddle scabbard. The man visibly relaxed, but kept his legs apart, balanced for action.

Mobley knew he was taking a chance, for he had yet to know the man standing before him, but someone had to make the first move and it was obvious neither of them wanted more of the fight. He turned and walked purposefully from the shelter of the cliff. Meteor followed several steps behind. Ten feet from the stranger, Mobley stopped and took time to assess what he saw. Honesty and a direct approach had served him well in the past. That was the way he would play it. In fact, he knew he could do nothing else. It was the way he was. The way of the lurk and plot were not in him. It just never occurred to him. Still, he knew a great many others saw the open and honest man as stupid or naïve. But that was their way. Not his. He accepted people at face value, but never forgave those who violated his trust. If, of course, he could remember what they had done to him in the past, for he generally did not bother storing up bad memories.

Meteor skittered sideways, nervously sniffing the air already rank with the odor of dead horse and rotten men. She danced lightly from side to side, nickering, snuffling, and snorting. She took a short step forward, as if to nuzzle the stranger for sugar, and then quickly backed away.

Mobley was taken immediately by the man’s ragged appearance. He was neither Indian nor buffalo hunter, although the rifle cradled in his arms was clearly appropriate for such use. A Mexican, by dress, his vest, pants, and
sombrero
were unmistakable and of good quality at some time in the past. He’d clearly been starving, but was not yet ready to roll over. His eyes were dark, slightly glazed, his complexion fair against the flush of emotion. The long curly black hair hanging in a plait from underneath his sombrero had not seen a shear in many months; his drooping mustache was full and bushy. The man was in desperate need of food, clothes, a bath and a barber. Still, his posture and the pistol carried and strapped low on his hip said he was not to be taken lightly.

Mobley extended his hand. “I, sir, am Mobley Meadows, U.S. Circuit Court Judge for the Western Division of Texas. I am in your debt. That was some fine shooting you did from up there.”

Mobley paused, cocked his head slightly and waited for a reply that did not come. Finally, “You look to be in need of some hot vittles and the company of another human being. I’ve got plenty of both to share, if you’ll join me?”

Juan allowed himself to relax as he examined the man and admired the well worn and burnished buckskin jacket he wore. It was decorated with red and blue turquoise beadwork on the lapels that matched the band on his broad brimmed hat. A work of art.

The man’s face displayed a big smile that would have melted the heart of any rational
señorita
, and was well placed on a large squared off jaw.
A judge
? The man was tall, taller than any man Juan had ever seen, but not gangly. His shoulders now seemed even wider than they had appeared from the top of the cliff, and his arms were thick with what could only be serious muscle. His hair was a dark curly brown with touches of gray about the ears. Steel blue eyes stared cautiously from within a prominent, intelligent brow, nose straight and narrow. Juan could sense the honesty of the man’s offer.
A judge, yes; but the buckskin jacket with Indian beadwork?
It did not fit the image. In Mexico, a man’s clothing defined him, a hat often told who he was, what he did for a living. Yes, many things were odd about this man.

Juan nodded, dropping his head no more than necessary to carry meaning, accepted the big hand and returned its firm grip. He would allow the matter to play out until he knew more, but would stay alert. His response, in execrable English, would have caused his mother to shudder. While he spoke perfect upper class Spanish, he’d had to disguise his English to cover an aristocratic British accent. Border bandidos would not have allowed him to explain. They would have thought him a spy, or worse.

“Bueno, se
ñ
or. My name is Juan Antonio Lopez, and I accept your kind offer. My English is no so good, but if you will leave thees food with me while you go round up thee horses, I will prepare for us somethings to eat by the time you get back. What do you have, thees food?”

Relieved by the man’s response, Mobley turned to his saddlebags. “Well, there’s not much variety, but I’d guess from that bony look in your eye, you’re not likely to be picky. Travelin’ food ought to do. There’s bacon and bean, salt, corn meal and flour, a little jerky. Might even be some hard candy left. You’re welcome to fix whatever you can out of that mess.”

With a flourishing motion, Mobley untied the pigging string to his saddle bags, then dropped them into Juan’s hands and looped himself into the saddle. The Arabian horses had gathered, herd instinct compelling them to band together for safety, and all had drifted toward the grassy creek a few yards from the Brazos River brush. His mule was even nearby, a half mile or so back on the track. Mobley felt a rush of relief. The mule had panicked at the first shot from the attacking men and bolted for safety, but she apparently did not like freedom quite as much as she had previously thought. Now they would have plenty of supplies for the remainder of the journey.

As he turned to ride after the animals, it occurred to Mobley that he was exposing himself to great danger. If the man he’d just met wanted to kill him, now was his best chance. But he knew, somehow, the man would not shoot him in the back. There was no tingle, no sense of danger, no fear creeping up his neck. He rode on without turning around.