The Alamosa Trail

Chapter 11

In the churchyard of the Mexican town of Chihuahua, Father Sanchez began the funeral prayer of commitment as two women stepped up to the open graves and dropped dirt onto the coffins of the dead. The women, the widows of the two slain policemen, were dressed in black with their faces covered by veils.

Capitán Bustamante stood a little way behind the mourners, holding his hat in his hand as the funeral ended. As the two widows were leaving the graveyard, he stepped out to confront them.

“Senoras,” he said in a solemn voice, “this, I promise you: The men who murdered your husbands will pay for this crime with their own blood.”

The older of the two women, Senora Montoya, stopped and looked at Bustamante through eyes that were bloodshot and red-rimmed from crying. For a long, uncomfortable moment, she held him with her stare. Finally, in a low, woeful voice, she spoke.

“And when these men are dead, Capitán, will our husbands be returned to us?” she asked.

Bustamante blinked his eyes a few times, surprised by the woman’s response.

“No, and for that I am sorry.”

“Then do not speak to me of murderers paying in blood. Their lives will bring me no comfort. Not if it does not bring my husband back to me,” Senora Montoya insisted.

Father Sanchez hurried over to comfort the two widows. He flashed Bustamante an admonishing glance. “My son, do not speak of more killing in this holy place,” he said.

Bustamante left the churchyard. Behind him in the church belfry, a muffled bell tolled once for each year lived by the two slain policemen, thirty-two times for Montoya, twenty-eight for Arino. The bell tolls could be heard all over the town, and when Bustamante walked through the plaza, he saw that many were standing with their hats held reverently across their chests as they waited for the funeral to end.

The tolling didn’t cease until Bustamante was in his office. He hung his sombrero on a peg, then glanced over at his deputy, Lieutenant, or Teniente, Santos.

“How was the funeral?” Santos asked.

“Very sad.”

From outside, they could hear the hoofbeats of a galloping horse.

“Someone is in a great hurry,” Bustamante said.

“Listen, someone is shouting,” Santos said.

“Senor Capitán! Senor Capitán!”

Bustamante looked through the front window of the office. “It is Jose Meras.”

The rider stopped in front of the police station then swung down from the saddle, just as Bustamante and Santos came outside to see what it was about.

“Capitán Bustamante, the men who killed Montoya and Arino,” Meras shouted excitedly. “It was seven gringos and one Mexican. They have been seen!”

“Where?”

“In the mountains, near the village of Escalon.”

“Escalon?” Bustamante turned to Santos. “Teniente Santos, who is in charge of the police at Escalon?” he asked.

“Sargento Gonzales.”

“Only a sargento? No officers?”

“It is a very small station, senor,” Santos replied.

“Very well. I will send a telegram to Sargento Gonzales, telling him that these men may be coming to his village.”

“Gonzales has but one man assigned to him, Capitán,” Santos said. “I do not think he can arrest eight men.”

“All the better. I will tell him to take no action, but just to observe them until we get there. After all, why give the glory to a mere sargento, when, by rights, it should be ours to claim. Santos, call the company together,” Bustamante ordered. “We are going after the murderers.”

“Sí, senor! Why give the credit to a mere sargento?” Santos replied with a big smile on his face.

Chickens squawked and scurried to get out of the way as Jim Robison and his friends followed Hector Ortega across the plaza of the little village of Escalon. A couple of men who were lazing in the shade, their sombreros shielding their eyes, made no effort to move as the riders passed within a few feet of them. An old woman was drawing water in the middle of the plaza and Jim and the others rode over to the well and dismounted. Without having to ask for it, the old woman offered her dipper to them.

“Gracias,” Jim said, taking the dipper. He drank deeply, then passed the dipper over to the others. Only Ortega didn’t drink from the well. Instead, he sat in his saddle in silence, watching the others.

“I know the son of a bitch don’t talk,” Tennessee said. “But don’t he drink water?”

“Mujer, trae agua,” Ortega said to the old woman at the well.

“Sí, senor,” the old woman replied. Filling the dipper with water, she carried it over to Ortega and handed it up to him.

Ortega drank thirstily.

“Maybe the son of a bitch thinks he is too good to get his own water,” Tennessee said.

Ortega tossed away the remaining few drops, then handed the dipper back to the old woman. He looked directly at Tennessee.

“I am your chief,” he said. “It would not look good in the eyes of my people if I drank at the well with those who are beneath me.”

“Beneath you? What do you mean, beneath you? I’ll show you who is—” Tennessee spouted angrily, but Jim put out his hand to stop him.

“Easy there, Tennessee,” Jim said.

“Easy? You just going to let him talk like that?”

“Yes.”

“Senor, I suggest you listen to your friend,” Ortega said to Tennessee. “He is man who knows his place.”

“You son of a bitch! I wish I knew enough Spanish to cuss you out in your own language,” Tennessee sputtered.

Again, Jim interrupted him. “That’s enough, Tennessee. Remember, he is our trail boss.”

“That’s right,” Ortega said with a broad smile. “I am your jefe.”

“Jim, I’ve never knowed you to show the white feather like that,” Tennessee said.

“I’ve got my reasons,” Jim said.

“I hope so.”

“I must go somewhere for a few days,” Ortega said. “Stay here until I return.”

“Are you going after the horses?” Jim asked.

“Sí. I go after the horses.” Ortega pointed across the plaza. “There is a hotel behind the cantina. Wait there.”

“What will we do about our own horses?” Tennessee asked.

“There is a place over there for your horses as well. I will be back in three days.” Without so much as a nod, Ortega rode off.

“So, Jim, you want to tell us why you was givin’ in to that bastard?” Barry asked.

“We’ve come all the way down here to get a herd of horses and take them back up to Colorado. Do any of you know where we are supposed to get these horses?” Jim asked.

“No.”

‘No, and neither do I. Ortega is the only one who does know. And since that’s why we came down here in the first place, and since we don’t get the rest of our money until we take them back, I plan to let that son of a bitch have his way on everything. After we get the horses, it’ll be a different matter.”

“Why? What do you plan to do then?”

Jim smiled at the others. “Why, I reckon Senor Ortega is goin’ to have to tangle with the surliest bunch of wranglers anyone ever run across. In the meantime, we’ll just take it easy here, like he said.”

“Take it easy? How can you take it easy in a flyblown dump like this? What are we supposed to do for the next few days?”

“Any of you boys ever developed a likin’ for tequila?”

“I’ve drunk it,” Tennessee said, screwing up his nose in distaste. “But it sure don’t hold a candle to Tennessee sour mash.”

“Or Kentucky bourbon,” Ken added.

“Well, I’ve run across a few folks back in the States who really like it,” Jim said. “They say you have to take it with salt and lemon, but once you learn how to do it, it’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, well, whatever it is, it has to be better than nothin’ to drink at all,” Gene said. “And if we really have three days here, I reckon we have the time to learn to like it.”

“What do you say we get our lessons started now?” Jim suggested. “Then after that . . .” he let the sentence hang.

“After that, what?” Tennessee asked.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but some of the senoritas are really pretty,” Jim said. “And they say that with enough tequila, all of them are beautiful.”

“Then what are we standing around out here for? Let’s get started,” Ken suggested.

The others laughed.

On the other side of the plaza from the cantina, unnoticed by the Americans, was the office of the Mexican Federal Police.

Sargento Gonzales was holding a telegram he had recently received from the district head-quarters in Chihuahua, advising him to be on the lookout for a group of white murderers who had crossed the border into Mexico. He stood at the window of his office and looked toward the well, where the seven Americans were drinking water. The eighth man, a Mexican, did not dismount, but drank from the dipper handed him by an old woman who was at the well.

Gonzales reread the wire that had been sent.

Tenientes Arino and Montoya were murdered by seven Americans who are riding with one Mexican. Before leaving Texas, the Americans are believed to have murdered a man named Kincaid and his son, both citizens of the United States. After murdering the Kincaid men, the outlaws stole Senora Kincaid and her two daughters, transporting them across the border to Mexico.

You are ordered to be especially vigilant but to take no direct action should these desperados arrive in your village.

Carefully, Gonzales counted the Americans. There were seven of them. And the Mexican on horseback made up the eighth man. The numbers and makeup of the band coincided exactly with the information contained in the wire.

“Diputado Reyna, they are here,” Gonzales said from the window.

Reyna, the deputy, who was polishing the chimney of an oil lantern, looked up at his chief.

“Sí,” he replied. He started to go back to the polishing, then he looked up again. “Who is here, Sargento?”

“The gringos who murdered Tenientes Arino and Montoya. They are here, in the plaza, right now.”

Setting the lamp down carefully, Reyna moved quickly over to the window. He counted the men in the plaza. “There are seven of them,” he said. “Eight, if you count the Mexican.”

“Sí. That is why I know they are who they are. Montoya and Arino were murdered by seven gringos, riding with one Mexican.”

Gonzales looked at Reyna as a huge smile spread across the sergeant’s porcine face. “Reyna, do you know what this means? All of Mexico is looking for them and they have come here, to Escalon. What an opportunity! The telegram from Chihuahua says we are to take no actin. But they are here and I will not let them get away.”

“There are seven of them,” Reyna warned again.

“Sí, seven.”

“Senor Sargento, did you not also say the wire from Chihuahua says we are to take no action?” Reyna asked.

Gonzales’s eyes shined brightly as he looked at Reyna. “Do you know how fortunate we are that they have come to our village? After we capture them, the reward will be great. I will be a teniente and you, Diputado Reyna, will be a sargento.”

“But there are only two of us!”

“We will have men from the town help us,” Gonzales said.”

“Men from town? They are peasants. Why do you think they will help us?”

“They will do it because they love their country. They will do it because I will ask them to do it. And they will do it because the government will give fifty pesos to each man who helps.”

“The Mexican is riding away,” Reyna said, watching the plaza.

“Let him go. He is of no consequence to us. Look, the gringos are going to the cantina. Quickly, Reyna, gather the others. On this day we will make history!”

With a look of trepidation, Reyna left the office to do the bidding of his chief.

“No, no, you gotta do it like this,” Jim explained. He licked salt from the back of his wrist, took a bite from the cut lemon, then swallowed some tequila.

“Let me try,” Ken said. He took a swallow of tequila, then tried to lick the salt off his wrist. But he had not yet swallowed the tequila, and when he opened his mouth to lick the salt, he wound up spewing tequila all over the place.

The others laughed,. “Hey, dummy, hasn’t anyone ever told you that you should never open your mouth when it is full of hooch?” Gene asked.

The others guffawed again.

“Well, what we need is another couple of lemons,” Tennessee said. “Amigo,” he called to the bartender. When the bartender didn’t answer, Tennessee looked down toward the other end of the bar. “That’s funny,” he said.

“What’s funny?” Jim asked. He had just sprinkled his wrist with salt and was getting ready to take another lick.

“The barkeep is gone,” Tennessee said.

“Not only the barkeep,” Chad added. “Look around the place. Weren’t there some folks in here when we came in a few minutes ago?”

“Yes, there were,” Jim answered, looking around in surprise.

“Yeah, well, except for us, this place is totally empty,” Chad said.

“Where the hell did everybody go?” Frank asked.

“I know we been on the trail a while, but I didn’t know we smelled that bad,” Tennessee teased.

For a second, Jim was as confused as everyone else. Then a sudden awareness of danger pricked him.

“Holy shit!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Everyone get down!”

Almost on top of Jim’s shout, gunfire erupted from out in the plaza. A fusillade of bullets smashed through the windows and crashed into the mirror behind the bar. Several bottles of liquor shattered as well. Even as the shooting continued from outside, the boys could hear the gurgling of the rotgut and tequila pouring out of them.

Jim turned over a table and the others did the same thing. They moved three of the tables together, making a barricade.

“Who is out there?” Tennessee asked.

“If you ask me, it’s the whole town,” Chad replied.

“Why are they shooting at us? We haven’t done anything!” Tennessee said. “I’m going to tell them it is a mistake!”

Rising up from behind the table, Tennessee started toward the front door.

“Tennessee, you fool! Get back here!” Jim shouted.

Jim’s warning went unheeded and Tennessee took two steps toward the front door, his hand raised chest-high. Then he was hit. Putting his hand to his chest, Tennessee spun around with a surprised look on his face and with blood spilling through his fingers.

“Barry?” he said in a strained voice. He tried to return to the tables, then pitched forward, falling facedown.

“Tennessee!” Barry shouted, crawling toward the man he had ridden and bunked with for the last three years.

“How is he?” Jim called over the sound of snapping gunfire and whistling, crashing bullets.

“He’s dead!” Barry replied.

“Jim, what are we going to do?” Frank asked.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Jim said. He looked toward the back door. “All the shooting is coming from the front, so we’ll go through the back. That’s where our horses are, anyway!”

“We’ll never make it to the back door,” Chad warned. “You saw what happened to Tennessee.”

“Pull the tables along with us. We’ll crawl across the floor, using the tables as shields until we reach the back door.”

“Well, if we’re goin’ to do it, let’s git!” Frank said. “It’s getting’ hot as hell in here!”

As the bullets continued to whip by them, banging into the tabletops but not punching through the thick wood, the men crawled low across the cantina floor. They reached the back door without anyone else being hurt.

“All right, we’re here! Let’s go!” Ken shouted. He stood up and kicked open the back door. As he did so, he saw a Mexican standing just outside the door, holding a double-barreled shotgun. The Mexican pulled the triggers and both barrels discharged in a loud roar. With a gaping hole in his chest, Ken was hurled back into the room.

The Mexican killed Ken at the cost of his own life, for all five survivors fired simultaneously. The Mexican went down, riddled with bullets.

Frank went out first, followed by the others. Jim was the last one out. Amazingly, except for the one man with the shotgun, no one else was waiting out back for them.

As soon as they mounted they saw the next problem facing them. The area between the cantina and the hotel was actually an enclosed courtyard with only one exit. That single avenue was along the north side of the cantina, opening out onto the plaza. In order to reach one of the roads leading out of town, they would have to ride right through the middle of that plaza. That was going to be extremely difficult for, at present, the plaza was brimming with nearly two dozen armed men.

“Look where this leads to! It opens right onto the plaza. What’ll we do now?” Chad called.

“Barry, you and Gene get Tennessee and Ken out here,” Jim ordered.

“What?”

“Hurry! Get them out here.”

“What are you talking about, Jim? They’re dead!” Gene shouted.

“Do you think I don’t know they’re dead! That’s why what I have in mind can’t hurt them,” Jim said. “Just do what I say! Chad, you and Frank watch the side in case anyone starts back here.”

Almost as soon as he spoke, four Mexicans started running along the side of the cantina. Chad and Frank cut two of them down, and the other two turned and ran back to the front.

Barry and Gene returned inside the cantina they had just evacuated. A moment later they reappeared, pulling the bodies of their two dead friends behind them.

“Put them up on their horses,” Jim ordered. “Not belly down. Sitting up.”

“How the hell are we going to make them set up?” Gene asked.

“Figure out a way, dammit!” Jim shouted as he fired at two Mexicans who had moved from the corner of the adjacent building to try to get a better firing position. Though he didn’t hit them, his bullets did come close enough to dissuade them from their attempt.

“Use their rifles,” Chad suggested. “Stick the rifles down the back of their shirt to hold them upright. Then tie their bodies into the saddle with rope.”

“Good idea!” Jim said. “But hurry!”

It took but a moment to have Ken and Tennessee sitting upright, or nearly so, in their saddles. When Jim looked at them and saw their ashen, lifeless faces, he felt a great sadness and a twinge of regret for the way he was about to use the bodies of his friends.

“Boys, wherever you are, if you can see what’s going on here and help us out, we can sure use it,” Jim said praying to their departed spirits.

The horses were a little skittish and hard to control. They smelled death, and it was obvious they weren’t eager to accept the burden of carrying riders who were dead. The animals wanted to bolt, and Jim hoped that their skit tishness would work to his advantage.

“What are you aimin’ to do with them fellas?” Gene asked.

“Get mounted,” Jim said. “I’m going to send Ken and Tennessee out first. When they get everyone’s attention, we’ll go, but not until then.”

“Which way will we go?” Gene asked.

“Watch Ken and Tennessee. Whichever way their horses break, we’ll go in the opposite direction,” Jim explained. “Now get ready!”

A slap on the two horses’ flanks sent them galloping out into the square. Just as Jim had hoped, the galloping horses and their grisly riders caught the attention of the men in the plaza. The two horses bolted toward the north, and at least two dozen men from the plaza ran after them, firing as they ran. Jim saw dust fly up from the backs of both Tennessee and Ken as several bullets found their mark. Even though he knew they were already dead, he couldn’t help but wince for them.

“Now!” Jim shouted.

Slapping his legs against the sides of his horse, he started south. The others followed him and were halfway across the plaza before Gonzales or any of his impromptu deputies realized they had been tricked. Turning, the posse opened fire on the five escaping gringos.

Jim bent low over the neck of his horse, riding hard. Hot air seared his lungs as he drew in great, ragged gulps. His chest pounded and his skin tingled because he expected a bullet in his back at any moment.

Although none of the citizens of Escalon were mounted, Jim held his little group at a gallop for at least five minutes before he felt they were out of immediate danger. Then, holding up his hand, he signaled the others to stop. As they sat there, he could hear them, man and horse, gasping hard for breath.

“Son of a bitch!” Gene shouted. “We made it!’

“I don’t think that all of us made it,” Chad said, speaking in a small, pained voice.

Struck by the tone in the young man’s voice, Jim looked toward him. “Chad, you’re wounded?”

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Pretty bad,” Chad said. With that, he fell from his saddle. It was almost as if he had been holding on by sheer willpower until this moment. Now, with the immediate danger over, he let go of that will, and when he did, there was nothing left to sustain him.

Jim jumped from his saddle and hurried over to his young friend. “Chad, take it easy,” he said. “We’ll rest here a while.”

Chad forced a laugh. “Jim, looks like I’m going to be resting here from now on,” he said. “Funny, I never thought I’d wind up buried down here in ol’ Mexico.” He closed his eyes.

“Chad? Chad?” Jim called to him.

“How is he?” Barry asked. “How bad is he hurt?”

Jim felt for a pulse, then leaned over and put his ear to Chad’s chest. He listened for a long moment. Then he straightened up, sighed, and shook his head.

“He’s dead,” he said.