Scalpers (10 page)

“I don't call it a
fight
at all,” Sam said firmly, rifle poised, ready.

Pridemore chuckled.

“You got me there,” Pridemore said. He looked at his men and nodded toward the downed scalper. “Get Malcolm out of there before he ruins the water,” he said. He looked back at Sam and said, “You can lower the rifle. Nobody else is going to try you. Hear that, men? Leave the Ranger alone,” he called out.

Sam lowered his rifle a little and nodded at the face on the board.

“Who's this?” he asked.

“That's Diamond Jim Ruby,” Pridemore said. “I have a man who is developing this sort of curio item. I think it's a peach of an idea. What say you?”

Sam didn't reply. Instead he looked toward the open door of the command office of the
federales
.

“If you're looking for the soldiers, they ain't here,” Pridemore said, anticipating him. “They rode out on patrol, ain't come back yet. We're getting concerned. You didn't happen to come upon them, did you?”

“Yes, I did,” Sam said, going along with the man's ruse. “The ones I saw were dead.”

“Them damn Apache!” said Pridemore. “Feared just this very thing. Full of arrows, I'll wager.”

“Yes, full of arrows,” Sam said, flatly, letting his eyes tell Pridemore that he didn't believe a word of it.

Pridemore shrugged.

“Well, there we have it,” he said. “Something just
told me
I was going to have to take this town over, bad as I hated to.” He looked around at his men. Two of them held Malcolm Chase seated on the edge of the well. One held a wadded cloth to his bloody face. Chase slumped sidelong, knocked out. Pridemore cut his eyes back sharply to the Ranger and said, “Have you got any problem with me running things here for a while?”

“Under the Matamoros Act, the Mexican government allows American lawmen to come here in pursuit of wanted men,” Sam said. “Anything else that happens here is between you and the
federales
. I have no say in it.”

“I'll be dogged,” Pridemore said with feigned interest. “You mean if I stood up and pissed right here in the street, you couldn't do nothing about it?” Behind him his men muffled a laugh.

“Not as long you keep it off my boot,” Sam said without cracking a smile. The men laughed again.

“You and I are going to get along, Ranger,” Pridemore said. He stood up and waved Bertha Buttons over from the roasting pig. “Come get these folks, Big Darling,” he called out to her. Then he looked back at Sam. “Bertha here runs the Mockingbird Cantina.” He gestured toward the large ragged tent.

The Mockingbird Tent Cantina. . . .
Sam recalled the dying soldier telling him about the cantina owner being with the mercenaries—how the leader of the men had hit her after she'd stabbed Diamond Jim in the heart.

Pridemore pointed at the grim face on the pine board. “She used to be this one's woman, but she's more or less mine now.” He grinned again. “Enough of all that . . . I
can
feed you folks, can't I?”

“Obliged,” Sam said, looking around and seeing the hungry look on Ria's and Ana's faces. He looked over at Bertha Buttons, who came walking toward them. Even from halfway across the street, he saw her black swollen eye.

“Which way did Ozzie Cord go?” he asked Pridemore.

Pridemore looked at him for a second, then said, “North, Ranger. He rode out of here headed north. He knows you're on his trail. Probably wants to get somewhere and lie low. How soon are you going after him?”

“Soon as I get my horses grained and watered,”
Sam said. He nodded at Ria and Ana Cerero. “I need to get them situated here until they get ready to head home.”

“Hear that, Bertha?” he said as the big woman walked up. “These women need to get situated for a while.”

Bertha looked the women over.

“I can make room for them,” she said.

Before Sam could speak for the women, Ria swung down from her saddle and walked over to them.

“I am Ria Cerero,” she said to Bertha, “and this is my very young daughter, Ana. We are not saloon girls, but we will sew and cook and clean your saloon for you and your women . . . if you will allow us to?”

Sam listened. From the sound of Ria, she knew her way around these kinds of women.

“Honey, I can use you and your daughter's help starting today. My girls' clothes are falling apart.” She smiled and stepped over and reached out for Ria to take her hand.

Sam started to say something to Ria, but before he could, she stepped over, pulled him aside and said to him, “It is good, Ranger. We have worked in such places. We will work and rest here and prepare for our long journey home.”

Sam only nodded, knowing it was Ria's decision to make.

“All right, ma'am,” he said. “You and your daughter do what suits you. I'll get on with my manhunt.”
He gathered the reins to the horses and the mule cart.

“Anything else I can do for you, Ranger?” Pridemore asked, seeing Sam turn and gather the reins to the horses and mule.

“I'm good,” Sam said. He touched the brim of his sombrero and led the animals toward the livery barn. As he walked away, Pridemore leaned closer to Alpine.

“Get some men on his trail soon as he leaves,” he ordered. “I'll go to the barn in a few minutes, see what he's got to say in private with Ol' Dan Webster here cocked at him.” He patted the big Colt in his belt. “Some folks find it easier to talk man-to-man.”

In the livery barn, the first thing the Ranger did was walk to the rear doors and swing them open to the air and sunlight. Returning to the horses and the mule, he watered and grained the animals. When a young boy came from the Mockingbird carrying a wooden plate filled with roasted pig and flatbread, Sam sat down on an empty crate beside the horses and ate his fill. As he finished, Turner Pridemore stepped inside the barn and stood facing him from ten feet away. The scalper leader's right hand rested on the butt of his big Walker Colt. Sam looked up as if he'd been expecting him.

“Have we got more to talk about?” he asked quietly. Even though Pridemore had come in alone, Sam saw scalpers waiting outside the front door.

“Yeah,” Pridemore said. “Figured we best talk alone, make sure we both understand each other.”

“Talk, then,” Sam said. He set the wooden plate aside and stood up, his hand at his side near the butt of his own Colt.

Pridemore said, “We both know it won't be long before more soldiers show up wanting to know what happened to Captain Penza and his men.”

Sam kept a level gaze on the mercenary leader.

“I have no doubt they will,” he said. “If you're
wondering what I'll tell the
federales
, I plan on telling the truth.”

Pridemore gave him a questioning look.

Sam said, “That I found soldiers lying dead in the trail, wolves eating them. It looked like an ambush.”

“What else?” Pridemore asked.

“I'll tell them I saw arrows in the bodies of man and horse alike,” Sam said. “But I'll also tell them I saw no unshod tracks of Apache horses.” He wasn't going to mention what the dying soldier had told him. The situation here was shaky enough without revealing that a dying witness had identified who killed the captain and his men.

Pridemore's palm rubbed back and forth on his gun butt.

“So what?” he said. “Apache steal lots of horses, especially Quetos and his Wolf Hearts. Seeing shod horse tracks don't mean it wasn't Apache who ambushed Penza.”

“I didn't say it meant anything one way or the other,” Sam relied. “I said I'd tell the
federales
what I saw, and that
is
what I saw.” As he spoke he reached over and picked up his Winchester from where it leaned against a stall door. Checking the rifle, getting ready for the trail, he said, “I expect they'll make what they will of it.” He casually levered a round into the rifle chamber. “See any problem with that?” he asked, turning back toward Pridemore.

Pridemore noted that the Ranger had left the rifle hammer cocked, his finger inside the trigger guard.
Seeing the barrel tip slightly toward his chest, Pridemore realized in a sudden flash that whatever advantage he thought he'd had on the lawman was gone. Without a clue, without a threat, easy and calm, the Ranger had just gotten the drop on him.

This sneaking son of a bitch!

“Move your hand down off your gun,” Sam said quietly, sounding almost as if it were a request rather than a command.

Pridemore looked at him almost in disbelief, keeping his hand on the big Colt.

“Huh-uh,” he said. He gave his stiff trademark grin. “Do you realize how many men are out there, waiting to do whatever I tell them to?”

Sam said, “Do you realize that
none
of them are standing between you and this rifle barrel?” He took a slow step forward, the rifle tip only inches from the mercenary leader's chest.

Pridemore saw the dark, deadly look in the Ranger's eyes and realized there was no more room for talk here.

“Whoa, now, easy!” he said. His hand dropped from the butt of the big gun. “That was nothing against you, Ranger. I often find that keeping my hand on Ol' Dan Webster here helps me think.”

“Then
think
of this.” Sam said. “If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead right now. Your men might kill me, but you'd never know about it. Are we clear?”

Pridemore stared at him. He wasn't used to a man making such a bold statement, standing this close, willing to back it up in spite of the odds being against him.

“We're clear,” he replied.

Sam took a step back but kept his rifle cocked and ready.

“What is it you really come here to talk about, Bigfoot?” he said.

Pridemore eased down and let out a breath.

“My boy, Fox, is out there riding with that idiot Ozzie Cord,” he said. “I want to hear you say you're not going to kill him.”

“You're not going to hear me say that,” Sam said. “I'm not hunting your son. But if he casts his lot with Ozzie Cord when I catch up to them, he'll have to deal with me.”

“I come here to reason with you in private,” Pridemore said, starting to bristle a little as he spoke.

“You came here to see if you can buffalo me one-on-one,” Sam said. “That won't work. I expect you'll next try to bribe me.” He saw that his words stung Pridemore, who had brought along a pouch of gold coins tucked inside his buckskin shirt.

Pridemore kept control of his temper.

“I might not need to buffalo or bribe you, Ranger,” he said, cooling down. “I taught my boy how to fight, how to shoot. He knows how to kill if a situation comes to that.” He offered his grin. “It just might be that you're the one getting ready to reap the whirlwind.”

Sam let the comment pass.

“When you taught him all that, you should also have taught him how to stay out of bad company,” he said. He stepped back to his dun and gathered the reins to both horses. “Outside . . . ,” he said, gesturing the rifle barrel toward the door.

Pridemore didn't move.

“Tell me something, Ranger—you know so much,” he said. “What makes you think I won't have my men kill you right here, right now? Save us all the trouble.”

“Are you asking
me
or
yourself
that question?” Sam said. He stepped forward, a menacing look in his eyes.

This time Pridemore turned and swung the large door open.

“He's coming out, men,” he said through the doorway. “Let him through.” He looked at Sam. “This will be the only talk you and I ever have,” he warned. “Nothing better happen to my boy.”

“I hope it doesn't,” Sam said. “Now step out.” He still held his rifle tipped in Pridemore's direction.

“Easy, men,” Pridemore said, walking out through the doors, expecting the Ranger right behind him. But instead of the Ranger following him, Pridemore turned at the sound of pounding hooves and saw the Ranger and the two horses ride out the open back door at a quick pace.

“He's cut out the back,” Pridemore said, he and his men hurrying to the edge of the barn in time to see the Ranger atop his dun, the barb right beside him. Both horses leaped up over the low corral rail and rode off along the rear trail out of town.

“Get after him, men,” said Alpine.

“No, wait,” said Pridemore, stopping them. “Nobody in Iron Point witnessed anything we've done, except tacking Diamond Jim's face to a board. We don't want to be seen riding off to kill a lawman, no matter which side of the border he's from.” He stared off at the dust riding behind the Ranger's horses as if in dark contemplation.

Alpine sidled up to him.

“What about sending out some men to trail Fox?” he asked.

“Get them sent,” Pridemore said. “I don't want Fox anywhere between the Ranger and Ozzie Cord when the lead starts flying.”

*   *   *

Fox and Ozzie had ridden all day on the strength of Ozzie telling of a place in the desert hills that his Uncle Erskine had once mentioned. The small hill town, Poco Aldea, or Little Village, was rumored to be ruled by a gang of Mexican gunmen and banditos known as the Perros Locos—the Crazy Dogs. Fox had also heard his father mention the place when he talked about his days of adventure and exploits on the wild Mexican frontier.

“Why are you so interested in this pissant of a town?” Ozzie had asked him earlier in the day.

“I'm not,” was all Fox had replied as they rode on across the desert floor.

It was later in the evening when the two rode up to a hitch rail out in front of a small adobe cantina in Poco Aldea. The Little Village stood on a steep hillside overlooking a short land spur of sandy
flatlands between the hills line and wide desert floor. Fox realized before they had put their horses up the hillside that they were being watched. He found it strange that Ozzie, in spite of knowing the town's reputation for harboring bad men, appeared surprised when they stepped down from their saddles and were met by six Mexican gunmen walking out of a darkened alleyway.

“Buenas noches, americanos,”
said a half Mexican, half Texan wearing a black dusty Mexican business suit and a tall sombrero. “I saw you
los necios
on the sand flats before dark.” The gunmen gave a quiet chuckle. “Do you know it is not wise to travel
unaware
in these dangerous badlands?” He eyed the two young
americanos
up and down, Fox wearing a long duster over his buckskins, the tails spread down his horse's sides.

Jackasses, huh . . . ?

Fox ignored the insult and swung down easily from his horse and stepped around it. Ozzie stepped down awkwardly, seeming unsure what to do about the guns pointed at them.

As Fox stepped into sight, the gunmen saw a short-barreled ten-gauge shotgun appear in his hands as if from out of thin air. They had neither seen the short gun lying inside his saddle cantle under his duster tails, nor heard the hammers cock.

“Who's
unaware
?”
Fox said flatly. He deliberately kept his face stoic, refusing to copy his father's stiff grin.

“Ah,
señors
,” said the Tex-Mexican, him and the other gunmen stepping back at the sight of the
large sawed-off's barrels aimed at them. “Sometimes we joke with all the pilgrims who pass through Poco Aldea.” He shrugged and gave a slight nervous grin. “It is not always a good idea, I admit.”

Fox cut a glance at Ozzie, who had now gotten himself collected and held his hand on his holstered Colt. Then he looked back at the Tex-Mexican.

“I see where it could become a hazardous practice,” Fox said quietly, wearing the same flat stare. He wagged the sawed-off at the man. “Want to tell your pals to trim down, keep me from blowing your brains all over their shirts?”

“
Sí
, I can do that,” the Tex-Mexican said. He reached an arm out slowly to his side and motioned for the men to lower their guns.

“I'm Silvar Stampeto. Maybe you have heard of me and my
compañeros
, the Perros Locos? We are known as bad hombres.”

“The Crazy Dogs? No, I've never heard of you or Perros Locos,” he lied. He eyed the men, then looked back at Silvar Stampeto. “Maybe you're not trying hard enough.”

Stampeto gave a short chuckle and looked at his gunmen.

“We are ‘not trying hard enough,' he tells me,” he repeated to his men. He said to Fox, “I must consider that myself when I make plans for us.” He tipped the barrel of the gun up and uncocked it. Fox kept the shotgun leveled and ready.

“Just so you know from now on,” Ozzie cut in, “my pard and I are men you want to steer clear of unless you're looking for trouble.” He tapped his
fingers on his holstered gun. “Next time you might not get a chance to crawfish.”

The gunmen's eyes flared at Ozzie.

“The Perros Locos crawfish from no one,” a big powerfully built Mexican said.

“Easy, Paco,” said Stampeto. He looked at Fox. “Is your pard always so quick to bad-mouth a man?”

“Call it
even
for your jackasses' remark,” Fox said.

“Ah, so your Spanish is good, eh?” said Stampeto. He gestured at the human finger bones and other grisly human ornaments on the bib of Fox's buckskin shirt. “No kin of yours, I hope,” he said.

“Barely acquaintances,” said Fox. “We're mercenaries. We've been cutting scalps for the Mexican government. My friend here speaks his mind. Rein your pals in or we'll stop talking altogether.”

“Scalpers, mercenaries . . . ,” said Stampeto, overlooking the threat. “Then it is true, you are some bad hombres.”

“I wouldn't lie to you,” Fox said.

“I would like to hear all about the scalp business,” said Stampeto, slipping his gun back into his holster, even as Fox kept the shotgun leveled and ready.

Fox cocked his head slightly and said, “You pay for the whiskey, make up for your rudeness, maybe we'll tell you how to kill Apache and lift their hair—government won't have to pay us to do it for you.”

The big Mexican, Paco, bristled at Fox's words.
Yet, staring closely at him, hearing him talk about scalp hunters jogged his memory.

“I know this gringo,” he said, gesturing a thick hand toward Fox.