Bullet for a Bad Man

Border Ruffians

Hard men in a hard land.

They thundered south, riding with an assurance born of experience and a belief in their own invincibility. No one spoke. No one joked or even smiled except for Drub, who every now and then glanced at Boone Scott and grinned.

The border they were bound for was not much of a border. It was not much of anything besides an imaginary line on a map that divided the country to the north from the country to the south. On a map the border existed, but in reality there were no guards or markers or any signs to show that north of the line was one country and south of the line was another.

The hard men had crossed back and forth so many times that they knew exactly where the border was. They knew it was rarely patrolled, and the times those rare patrols took place. They knew that to the people and government of Mexico, they were gringos. Worse, they were notorious desperados, killers and horse thieves. Men without souls.

The purpose for this raid was to help themselves to a lot of horses. As Old Man Radler explained to Boone before they left Porter’s, ‘‘Horse stealing is my bread and butter. I have buyers on this side who will buy all I can get from the other side.’’

‘‘Do the buyers know the horses are stolen?’’

Old Man Radler had given Boone a strange look. ‘‘What kind of question is that? Sure they know. So what? They get the horses for less than if they bought them on this side, and I make a profit since I get the horses for free.’’

‘‘How do the Mexicans feel about you helping yourself?’’

‘‘About as you’d expect. Which means you could have your brains blown out if you’re not careful. You might be as fast as Skelman, but speed does not make you bulletproof.’’ Old Man Radler had glanced at Drub. ‘‘Since my son has taken a shine to you, Lightning, I will give you a word of advice. Be like a cat in a room full of dogs. Have eyes in the back of your head. Because if you don’t, I can guarantee you won’t make it back.’’

They rode at night and lay up during the day. It was night when they crossed the border. They always crossed at night and then rode back in broad daylight so they could see whether the Mexicans were after them.

Ten more miles brought them to the Menendez Rancho. One of the oldest and biggest in all Mexico, the Menendez family were famed far and wide for the quality of their horses. They raised the finest anywhere, and were protective of those they raised.

The patriarch of the family, Anastasio Menendez, hired only the top vaqueros. To qualify, a vaquero had to be good with a caballo and good with a reata and good with a pistol. That last was important. They had to be very good with a pistol because the vaqueros on the Menendez Rancho were fighting vaqueros.

They fought off Indians, and they fought off anyone who thought they could help themselves to Menendez land, but mostly they fought off rustlers.

This was imparted to Boone by Vance Radler when they came to a ridge overlooking grassy lowland broken by arroyos and sprinkled with mesquite. ‘‘I don’t much like greasers,’’ Vance concluded, and then grinned at Galeno. ‘‘But I sure as hell have a healthy respect for the Menendez vaqueros. If they see you they will shoot on sight, and you better be damn quick shooting back or you will be damn quick dead.’’

Drub was listening. ‘‘Don’t you worry about my friend, Vance. He can take care of himself.’’

‘‘He can shoot bottles,’’ Vance said. ‘‘But bottles do not shoot back. How do we know he can handle this?’’

Skelman was listening too. ‘‘Idiot,’’ he said.

That shut Vance up.

Old Man Radler waved an arm and they descended to the flatland, riding at a walk with their hands on their revolvers, and peering every which way. Dawn was still an hour and a half off and without the moon they might as well be at the bottom of a well.

‘‘This always spooks me,’’ Drub whispered to Boone.

‘‘Hush, you infant,’’ Vance snapped.

Old Man Radler twisted in the saddle to glare at both of them. His mouth worked, but he did not vent the cusswords he plainly wanted to utter. His meaning, though, was clear: Open your damn mouths again and you will by God answer to me!

They did not open their mouths again.

It was half an hour before lights appeared. Not many but enough to tell Boone that they were close to the Menendez hacienda.

Old Man Radler reined to the west and led them another half mile. Drawing rein, he raised an arm and the rest did the same. He motioned at Galeno, who went on ahead. In five minutes Galeno was back. He whispered in Old Man Radler’s ear, and Old Man Radler turned.

‘‘This is it, boys. The herd is where we thought it would be. Five hundred or more.’’

‘‘Are we taking all of them?’’ Boone asked.

‘‘I wish to hell we could. But we will be lucky if we get half. A dozen vaqueros are riding herd and over thirty more are camped nearby.’’

‘‘That is a hell of a lot of vaqueros,’’ Wagner said. ‘‘Menendez keeps hiring more all the time.’’

‘‘From here on out, no slacking. All of you know what to do. Lightning, this is your first time, so stay close to Drub. And, Drub, you remember that the vaqueros will be out to kill you. The last time you nearly got a bullet in your brain.’’

‘‘I’ll remember, Pa.’’

‘‘Good. Let’s go.’’

They moved as silently as their creaking saddles and the dull thud of hooves allowed. Soon they spied the herd, a mass of horseflesh at rest in a broad open area. Around the perimeter rode men in sombreros, the silver conchas on their gun belts, and the silver on their saddles gleaming in the starlight.

Old Man Radler rose in the stirrups and let out with a whoop worthy of a Comanche. At the signal, he and his men crashed out of the brush and smashed into the Mexicans. Two vaqueros were shot from their saddles before they could touch their pistols. Then the americanos were in among the horses, yelling and whistling and yipping. Predictably, the horses broke, and it was a credit to Radler and his men that they kept a large bunch of the horses together and drove them in a body to the north.

Vaqueros shouted and swore. Gun muzzles blazed and roared. In the camp, vaqueros were scrambling out from under blankets to get to their mounts and take part. A number of them came charging toward the rustlers on foot, firing at anyone who was not wearing a sombrero.

In the midst of it all, Drub Radler giggled.

Boone, bent low, had his ivory-handled Colt in his hand. But he did not shoot. Not even when lead sizzled the air over his head. Or when a vaquero materialized in front of him, frantically reloading. Instead, Boone reined in close and slammed his Colt against the vaquero’s temple.

Drub giggled again.

The horses were in full flight, their heads high and their tails flying. As they swept past the camp, vaqueros tried in vain to stop them.

Radler and his men cut the vaqueros down, shooting as fast as targets presented themselves. Some of the rustlers laughed with glee at the death they dispensed. Skelman shot more vaqueros than anyone, but he did not laugh.

Then they were clear of the camp and racing into the night. They rode hard, risking limb and life, but it was either that or have the vaqueros overtake them, and the vaqueros would not show any mercy. When aroused they were formidable, and nothing aroused them more than to have the horses they were guarding rustled out from under them, and to lose amigos they were fond of to the bullets of the rustlers.

Boone had no difficulty keeping up. Every now and again he patted the palomino’s neck.

They rode and they rode, and eventually the eastern sky brightened, and dawn broke. Now that they could see, they slowed and checked their back trail for pursuit.

‘‘They aren’t after us,’’ Vance marveled.

‘‘They will be,’’ Old Man Radler said.

It was Wagner who exclaimed, ‘‘By God, we must have three hundred head or more!’’

He was not exaggerating. They had most of the herd.

Old Man Radler smiled and said, ‘‘We will do as we did the last time. Skelman, you take care of it.’’

They had gone three-quarters of a mile when the sharp-eyed among them spotted dust tendrils to their rear. Skelman began bawling names, six in all. Boone was one of those he picked. Drub stopped too, even though he was not one of those chosen.

‘‘What do you think you are doing?’’ Skelman demanded.

‘‘What my pard does, I do.’’ Drub smiled at Boone.

‘‘Fine. Just don’t get yourself killed. Your pa will never forgive me.’’

Skelman barked orders. They melted into the brush, spreading out and turning their mounts to the south to await the source of the dust.

‘‘Isn’t this fun?’’ Drub whispered to Boone.

Boone made sure no one was close enough to hear him whisper in reply, ‘‘Taking something that doesn’t belong to you is wrong.’’

‘‘You don’t like to steal horses? I have been doing it all my life.’’

‘‘I don’t like to steal anything. I was raised different. My folks would have a fit if I did this.’’

‘‘My pa would have a fit if I didn’t. I have to do as he says or he beats the tar out of me.’’

‘‘You are big now, Drub. You do not need to take that from him if you don’t want to.’’

‘‘Fight my pa? Are you loco?’’

‘‘I am beginning to wonder. If someone had told me a year ago that I would join up with the Radler gang and rustle Mexican stock, I would have thought they were drunk.’’

‘‘But you said you never heard of him before you met me.’’

‘‘I fibbed. It seemed like the thing to do at the time. I am young, but I like to think I am not stupid.’’

‘‘Then you must have heard of Skelman too.’’

‘‘He has a reputation.’’

‘‘Yet you’re not scared of him, like most everyone else. How come?’’

‘‘I have never been scared of anything except losing my ma and pa when they grow old.’’

‘‘I don’t get scared much either. Vance says it is because I am too stupid to know what scared is.’’

‘‘For a brother he is awful mean.’’

‘‘What about your brother?’’ Drub asked. ‘‘Does he treat you as mean as Vance treats me?’’

‘‘We have our spats,’’ Boone said. ‘‘We do not see eye to eye on a lot of things. But he has never been as mean as Vance. Mostly, he likes to go off and drink and womanize and play cards, and leaves me be.’’

‘‘I wish Vance would go off somewhere and never come back.’’

Hooves drummed. The vaqueros, unaware of the peril, came galloping toward them, following the trail of the stolen horses.

‘‘Don’t shoot until I do!’’ Skelman commanded, but not so loud that the vaqueros would hear.

‘‘Have you ever done this before?’’ Drub asked. ‘‘I have. We shoot them to ribbons and they fall down and get blood all over everything.’’ He cocked his revolver.

‘‘Stay alive, Drub.’’

‘‘I’ll try. I want to go on being your pard. You are the first true friend I ever had and it means a lot to me.’’

‘‘Just stay alive,’’ Boone reiterated.

‘‘You too.’’

The vaqueros, bunched together, were almost on them. In the lead was a handsome man with bandoleers crisscrossing his chest. A trimmed mustache adorned his upper lip, and a pistol was on either hip. He was scanning the brush. Suddenly he hauled on his reins and shouted a warning.

Skelman burst into the open, a black-handled Colt in each hand. He cut loose with ruthless precision, thumbing and firing, blasting vaquero after vaquero. The other rustlers followed his example. Drub too broke from cover to send lead into the mass of Mexicans struggling to control their mounts while getting off shots of their own.

Boone stayed close to Drub. He palmed his Colt and thumbed back the hammer and he did not squeeze the trigger. Not until a pair of vaqueros came charging toward them, banging away, and Drub said, ‘‘Ouch!’’

Two shots as swift as thought, and Boone sent both vaqueros into eternity. He turned to Drub, who had clutched his shoulder and was grimacing. Quickly Boone grabbed Drub’s reins, wheeled their animals and retreated into the brush, pulling Drub after him.

‘‘What are you doing? We can’t leave yet.’’

‘‘You have been hit.’’

‘‘It’s only a scratch. We should go back before my pa finds out. He is liable to be mad.’’

No sooner did Drub speak than Old Man Radler was broadside in front of them, barring their way. Boone had to draw rein to keep from colliding with him.

Brandishing his revolver, Old Man Radler snapped, ‘‘Where in hell do you think you are going?’’

‘‘Your son has taken a slug.’’

Another strange look came over the outlaw leader. ‘‘I don’t know what to make of you, Lightning.’’ He kneed his animal up next to his son’s. ‘‘How bad is it? Can you hold out awhile?’’

‘‘Sure, Pa. Don’t worry about me. And please don’t be mad at my pard. He is only trying to help.’’

Old Man Radler lowered his six-shooter but glared at Boone. ‘‘I will overlook you not doing as I wanted, this time. But it could be I will have to kill you before too long.’’