The Shadow Man (16 page)

“Then we leave now,” Kirker growled at the captain. “Rauch, let's go.”

Kirker whirled and walked swiftly for the front door. Rauch moved with him.

“Guards, arrest those men,” commanded the captain. “They are prisoners of war.”

For four years Kirker had wanted to kill Zaldinar, ever since his confinement and horrible treatment in the prison. Now Kirker's pulse raced in anticipation at blasting a bullet through the Mexican.

“Shoot them!” hissed Kirker as he spun to the rear. His pistol slid easily from its holster and rose in his hand. He fired.

The flame and smoke from the revolver drove at Zaldinar's chest. A hammer blow struck the Mexican officer and slammed him backward, crashing him into the wall.

One down, thought Kirker. He swung the pistol to shoot the soldier before the man could raise his rifle.

The private whipped up his weapon, cocking it. The bastard gringo had killed the captain. Now the damn scalp hunter would die.

The private felt his heart freeze. The American was quick beyond belief. The deadly blue eyes of the man were staring directly into his soul. And his pistol was aimed precisely. The private's mind barely had time to register the beginning of a puff of smoke from the end of the threatening gun before he died.

Kirker twisted to assist Rauch in battle. Rauch's pistol roared for the second time. The lieutenant stumbled, clutched at his chest, and fell. All four Mexicans were down.

“I'll get the scalps,” Rauch cried.

Kirker caught Rauch by the arm and jerked him back. “Leave the damn things. They have no value to us now.”

“Right! Right!”

The two Texans plunged through the pall of gray gunsmoke to the outside.

The remaining four members of the band stood with revolvers drawn, ready for battle and watching the entrance to the duty officer's room.

“Mount up and follow me out at a slow gallop,” Kirker ordered. As he went with long strides for his horse, he scanned the soldiers on the parade ground.

The infantrymen had stopped their drill and were looking toward the Texans. The distant cavalry were continuing their practice maneuvers. They hadn't heard the shots fired inside the room, the distant noise masked by the thud of the horses' hooves.

An officer of the foot soldiers broke away from his company and walked hastily in the direction of the captain's headquarters. He called out over his shoulder, and a soldier trotted off toward the cavalry.

Kirker climbed astride. In only three or four minutes some of the best horsemen in the world would be pursuing his band. Still, he must keep his pace at a gallop, a pace that a group of men would use to travel but not one that would indicate men fleeing.

The Texans passed through the open gate of the compound. Kirker touched the brim of his hat in salute to the sergeant of the guard. He lifted his mount to a faster gallop along the streets of Chihuahua.

Rauch called to the other gang members. “We killed the Mexican captain and three of his men. Now we've got the hardest ride to make in all our lives, and with a minute's head start.”

“Why did you shoot them?” questioned Connard.

“Hell, I don't know why. Ask Kirker yourself. I think we're dead men.”

Connard spurred parallel to Kirker. He called out above the rumble of the galloping horses. “What in hell has caused all this?”

“The captain was going to arrest us. Something happened that made him mad. I don't think it was anything we did. It's bigger than that. He said something about making us prisoners of war. I think Mexico and Texas are fighting again.”

Rauch rode up on Kirker's other side. “They're coming a mile back. Half a hundred cavalrymen. We've got to find a place to lose them.”

“No,” Kirker said. “We'll outrun them. They must never get ahead of us and alert other army patrols or the people along the way. We don't want everybody shooting at us all the way to Texas. If we get stuck in Mexico, they'll do everything to track us down. Especially if Texas is at war with them.”

The gang leader let his horse feel the sharp rowels of his spurs. The cayuse broke from a gallop to a run. The rest of the men, drawn after Kirker like iron filings to a magnet, matched his speed.

All the mounts had covered many hundreds of miles and were hard-muscled. The Mexican cavalry couldn't catch them. Unless a Texan's horse became lame or fell.

The riders whipped past the citizens on the streets, leaving a long stream of reddish-brown dust trailing behind. They left Chihuahua and raced along the heavily used road, El Camino Real.

Kirker glanced behind him. The cavalry was gaining. He raked his mount harder with his spurs, raising a welt on the animal's ribs. The steed stretched out into a full run.

The strategy of the Mexicans was plain. They would try to exhaust the Texan's horses. It meant nothing if the Mexican mounts also were run into the ground. Replacements were available anyplace they asked for them.

The gang leader smiled grimly. He leaned forward over the neck of his horse. “Run, you bastard, but don't die until I find a fresh one.”

The Texan scalpers ran their mustangs beneath the yellow Mexican sun. The rocky, cactus-studded hills slipped past as the brutes held the heartbreaking pace.

At a junction in the road the riders veered onto the right fork, leaving the El Camino Real behind, and sped along a road leading northeast. Kirker knew the route well. It hugged the Rio Conchos for one hundred and fifty miles to the village of Presidio on the banks of the Rio Grande.

The sun seemed not to move, hanging endlessly in the sky as the horses labored onward. Sweat dampened the coats of the mounts. It thickened to clotted foam that was flung from the straining bodies.

“We're pulling ahead,” Rauch called. “But only a little.”

“Push harder,” replied Kirker. “We made need enough time to get new horses the first time we see some.” He recalled a ranch a few miles ahead where the river made a wide loop to the west. He raised his arm and began to lash his mount.

* * *

“Horses!” exclaimed Kirker. “A goddamn corral full of horses.”

“‘Bout time. These we've got couldn't go another half mile,” Rauch replied.

The Texans had topped a low ridge and were looking down on the buildings of a rancho beside the Rio Conchos. They glanced nervously to the rear at a dust cloud sweeping along the road.

“Five, maybe six minutes, that's all we've got,” said Kirker.

He led the men from the main road and down the lane to the ranch. He halted at the corral on the bank close above the river. As the riders swung to the ground the exhausted horses, trembling with fatigue, splayed their legs to keep from falling.

Kirker quickly surveyed the hacienda in a grove of cottonwoods a hundred yards distant. “The people here haven't heard us yet. Rauch, you and Borkan walk partway over there with your rifles. If anybody comes outside, keep them from bothering us while we swap horses.

“Kill them if they put up an argument. We'll catch new horses and pick you up.”

The two men jerked their rifles from their scabbards and trotted off.

“Wiestling, you're the best with a lariat. Get in the corral and rope us good mounts. The rest of you change all the saddles as fast as you can. Move! Hurry it!”

The men sprang to their tasks. The long loop of the lariat snaked out and snagged the head of one of the milling horses in the corral. In three minutes six horses were saddled.

“Open the gate,” ordered the gang leader. “Run the rest of those broncs ahead of you up the river a ways. Then scatter and hide them in some of that brush.” He grabbed the reins of two saddled horses. “I'll get Rauch and Borkan and catch up with you.”

At the thunder of hooves from the departing remuda of mustangs, a man ran from the hacienda. “Stop!” he screamed. “What are you doing?”

Rauch fired and the man collapsed to the ground. “The dumb fool should have stayed in the house,” Rauch said.

Kirker wheeled up with the spare mounts. Rauch and Borkan leapt up onto the horses. The men spurred north beside the Rio Conchos.

* * *

The night was soot-black, the stars small and far away, and the moon's face was turned away from the earth.

“They can't follow us in the dark,” said Flaccus, “and I'm god-awful tired. Let's rest for a while.”

“They don't have to see our tracks,” said Kirker. “Our destination will be clear to them. We'll be heading for the town of Coyame. In an hour those cavalrymen could have found some of the ponies we ran off, enough for a goodly number of men to keep after us.”

“Then let's turn into the hills and let them ride on past,” said Flaccus.

“I'm still doing the thinking for all of us,” Kirker said with a growl. “If war has started between them and us, then I want to get to Texas. And I say our asses are harder than the asses of the Mexicans and we can stay ahead of them.”

Flaccus grumbled under his breath and fell silent.

Kirker continued to speak. “By morning we can be forty miles closer to Texas. We'll take turns with one man guiding the way. The rest of us will sleep in the saddle. Line up and pass your reins to the man ahead. That way your horse won't wander off in the dark. I'll lead first. Rest as much as you can. Tomorrow will be a hard day. I expect we'll do some fighting.”

* * *

The town of Coyame lay dozing under the noonday sun when Kirker and his band of Texans entered its outskirts. A church with a high belfry and a bell, two cantinas, and a smattering of adobe and stone houses were hemmed in on one narrow street. Nearly a score of horses were tied along the street. The largest gatherings were fastened in front of the cantinas.

“Time to change ponies again,” Kirker said. He stared ahead with tired, bloodshot eyes. “There's not one man, woman, or child on the street.”

“You mean, just ride in there and take the horses right in broad daylight?” asked Connard. He chuckled low and mean in his throat. “I've always wanted to shoot the hell out of a Mexican town. Maybe this one will wake up and be the one that gives me the pleasure.”

“It won't take but a few seconds to change saddles,” Kirker said. “And I'm thinking the people will all sleep or drink beer right through the horse swapping.” He pointed. “Don't wake that old man snoozing in the shade of that tree.”

The gang leader pulled his hat lower over his eyes. “Pick the mount you like. I'm going to take a look at the ones at the cantina on the right. All of you meet up with me on the far edge of town.”

The Texans separated as they walked their weary cayuses along the main street of Coyame. Each man veered aside to stop close to a tethered mount. With practiced hands they removed the saddles from the new horses and cinched their own in its place. Immediately they climbed astride.

At the northern border of Coyame, the Texans mustered. Connard rode in last. “Not one chance to get in a little target practice,” he complained.

Kirker inspected the new mounts and spoke to the men. “These ponies are good animals and are well rested. So we'll bypass Presidio, holding to the east of it. If we're at war with Mexico, the news might have reached those places. Sometimes Mexican Army patrols set up a temporary station at the old fort in Presidio. The last thing we want is a new company of Mexican cavalry after us.”

“Suppose the bunch of Mexicans that are chasing us now don't stop?” asked Rauch. “I'd like to slow down enough to get a good meal and a night's sleep.”

“Then we'll stop them permanently at the first good ambush point east of Presidio,” replied Kirker.

I count twenty-three soldiers,” Kirker said, staring intently down into the shallow gorge full of the blue-gray shadows of late evening.

He lay with his band of Texans in the brush on the lip of the rimrock where the Rio Terlingua cut a shallow ravine through the foot of La Mota Mountain. Below him at a long rifle shot, a squad of Mexican cavalrymen in red-and-blue uniforms waded their weary mounts across the shoals of the river.

The officer was out in front of his men by fifty feet. He glanced back at the riders and then up at the trail leading through the break in the brown sandstone ledge hemming in the river. His eyes searched the dense brush on top of the rock outcrop.

“Come on, come on,” muttered Rauch. “Move, damn you. It'll be too dark to see the sights of my rifle in a minute.”

“The officer should have turned his men back before now,” Borkan said. “We're miles east of Presidio. He seems bent on chasing us clear to Austin.”

“Look at him. He's leery of the narrowness of the trail up from the river to the plain,” Rauch pointed out. “Maybe he'll quit and go back to Mexico now.”

“From his point of view we're the enemy and still in Mexico,” replied Kirker. “He can't turn back. He's made it safely past a hundred places where we could've ambushed him. He'll think this place is like all the rest.”

“You're right. Look, he's coming,” Connard said, his voice filling with anticipation. “He's decided to gamble again that the path's safe. Soon we'll have some good shooting practice.”

The officer called a command, and the cavalrymen pulled their muskets from saddle scabbards and held them ready. At a second command the men reined in their mounts, allowing the distance between each of them to open to three or four horse-lengths so that all the soldiers wouldn't be in the confined neck of the gorge at one time.

“I'll take the officer and the next man. That's probably the sergeant,” Kirker said as he picked up one of his rifles. “Rauch, you take the next two. The rest of you fellows count off two men each down the line. Now don't shoot someone else's target. Take steady aim and drop a pair of them.

“When your rifles are empty, use your pistols. The range is long, but you still may hit something. And the extra shots should help stampede all the live Mexicans back south.”