Scalpers (16 page)

As they rode, the old Mexican looked down at the gun in the waist of his peasant trousers and laid his hand back on its butt.

“I can only imagine what it must feel like to live in a country like yours where all men have guns with which to protect themselves and their loved ones.”

“It can be a blessing and a curse,” Sam replied, looking ahead toward the firelights in Casa Robos, knowing the Perros Locos would be gone by the time he and the elderly couple arrived there.

“A blessing and a curse . . . ? No, Señor Ranger, it must be a wonderful thing to stand boldly and demand that such men as
that one
back there go away and leave you alone.”

“But in my country men like
that one
have guns too,” Sam said.

“Ah yes, but all you must do is take the guns from the bad hombres and give them to the good and honest people, to hunt their food and protect themselves.”

“Sounds simple enough when you put it that
way,” Sam said. He decided not to go any further on the matter. Instead he gazed forward, wondering where Ozzie Cord and the Perros Locos might be headed next. “Any idea where the Crazy Dogs might've headed when they left Casa Robos?”

“
Sí
,” Miguel said, “they go to the French mines.”

“You heard them say this?” Sam asked.

“Sí,”
said Miguel. He shrugged. “They speak boldly of robbing the French. But it is no secret that every bandito wants to rob the French mining companies. It has been this way ever since the French invaded my poor country. What their army did not loot from us at gunpoint, their businesses and government leaders take from us these many years with their mineral contracts.”

“I understand,” Sam said.

They rode across the sand flats toward the firelights of Casa Robos until the sun revealed its thin silver-white wreath on the eastern horizon. When they drew closer and the flames of the campfires were recognizable, as were the outlines and faces of people gathered around them, a few men with ancient rifles, machetes and farming tools moved in closer and stared coldly at them. Behind their campfires, smoke still rose and drifted from the remnants of buildings the Perros Locos had set aflame.

“
Vecinos
,” Miguel called out from his saddle, “it is us, Miguel and Josefina. The Perros Locos did not catch us, as you can see!”

The armed village men moved in even closer, this time hospitable, recognizing two of their own.

“The Ranger found us just in time, before the
Perros Locos came to kill us,” the old Mexican called out across the campfires. He gestured a hand toward Sam. “Let us make him welcome.”

Sam nodded and tipped his sombrero as the people cheered. But he knew that as soon as his horses were rested and grained, he would be on his way. This was not the time to stay long in one place on the trail. He was getting closer to Ozzie Cord with every mile. As soon as the villagers pointed him in the direction of the French mines, he'd be back on the trail.

Bigfoot Turner Pridemore stood out in front of the Mockingbird Cantina's new home, the building where Pancho Mero's cantina used to be. Three days earlier the bright red-and-green sign reading P
ANCHO
M
ERO'S
C
ANTI
NA,
had come down and been painted over. The only place Pancho Mero's name could be seen now was on a wooden grave marker stuck in a fresh mound of earth in the town cemetery. The big colorful sign now read B
IGFOOT'S
M
OCKIN
GBIRD
S
ALOON
.

“You know what might make me happy, Big Darlin'?” Pridemore said to Bertha Buttons, who stood beside him, his arm looped over her shoulders, a cigar hanging between his fingers.

“What would that be, Bigfoot?” she asked. Her black eye had mended, except for a dark half-moon smudge against the side of her nose.

“I'd like to take this pissant country over, see what I can make of it.”

She just looked up at him.

“I mean it,” he said, looking out along the trail to the hill country, the direction his three men had taken to follow the Ranger. “These jelly-headed Mexes have no idea what to do with this place. Neither did the French, nor the Germans.”

Before replying, Bertha glanced at the pine
board leaning against the front of the building beside the open doors. The curing, round, bearded face of Diamond Jim Ruby stared out through eyes someone had drawn in with a charcoal pencil. Someone, the same person perhaps, had stretched the lips open in a grotesque grin and penciled in a large row of teeth.

“That's real ambitious, Bigfoot,” she offered warily, not sure what might set her new mate into a killing rage.

Pridemore gave the idea some more thought, then lifted his arm from around her and stuck the cigar into his mouth and bit down on it.

“Hell, I'm talking crazy,” he said. “I wouldn't know no more what to do with this place than the Germans or the French.” He let out a breath. “Since I started scalping I ain't used to sitting around this long. I'm just getting restless now that Iron Point is being run the way it should. I need to find some scalps and ply my trade.”

“What about when the
federales
come calling?” Bertha asked.

“Don't worry about them,” Pridemore said. “We've got enough money coming in. We can keep buying them month after month. That's all you ever get from any government—whatever you can buy from them.”

Bertha only nodded.

“How's Ria and her very young ‘daughter' working out?” he asked with a grin.

“Ria got all the sewing caught up. She wants to start tending bar, get herself a dice game going,”
Bertha said. “I told her
maybe
. First I want her to go home, hire some more ‘
very young daughters
' and bring them back here.” She smiled. “These French and Cornish miners can't get enough. Said Ana turns down marriage proposals every night.”

“I don't doubt that. She's the youngest-looking whore I ever seen,” Pridemore said, drawing on the cigar. “How old you say she is—twenty-five, thirty?”

“I won't guess,” said Bertha. “What do you care anyway? You've got all the woman you need right here.” She hugged in close beside him.

Pridemore stared out again toward the distant hills. “My three men should have been back by now. So should Fox unless he's found something that's got his interest up.”

Bertha looked up at him, reached her nails between the buttons of his shirt and scratched easily.

“It's good what we've got here, Bigfoot,” she said, sounding believable. “Don't go thinking about leaving me.”

“You don't want to be telling me what to do and not do, Big Darling,” Pridemore said with a warning in his tone.

“I'm not,” said Bertha. “I know better than to try. It's just that I've gotten used to you, Bigfoot. Who would I ever find to take your place?”

“Well . . . I expect I see your point there, Big
Darling,” Pridemore said. “I would be damn hard to replace.” He gripped a hand on her buttocks. “But I might have to ride out and stir something up, see what's keeping Fox and the men. With the Wolf Hearts lying low, a man needs something to scalp or skin.” He looked off toward the well where Darton Alpine and Ohio Phil walked along with their rifles under their arms, returning from scouting the trails.

“Both of you come over here,” he called out. “I'm wondering what's become of my boy.”

Bertha kept herself from smiling. If only she could get rid of him. If only something or someone would kill him—the Apache, the Ranger or, she didn't care what, a bear, a rattlesnake bite.

“What will I do while you're gone?” she said with a pout.

“Keep these big sweet legs crossed if you know what's good for you,” Pridemore said as Alpine and Ohio Phil walked over to them.

Bertha smiled and pulled away from him.

“I'll just leave you fellows to talk,” she said, turning to the open saloon doors.

“Get our horses ready, Dart,” Pridemore said as Bertha walked inside the big saloon. “We're going to look for Fox and that idiot Ozzie—see if we can't find some hair to cut on our way.”

*   *   *

Fox Pridemore, Ozzie Cord and Silvar Stampeto sat atop their horses looking out and down onto the large mining complex that took up an entire terraced hillside a half mile below them. Terese
Montoya sat on her paint horse beside Fox. The Mexican gunmen and their horses stood a few yards behind them, all of them feeling better after Fox had decreed a night of drinking whiskey and cocaine after a day of pillaging.

Upon leaving Casa Robos, they had burned the stores, cantinas and businesses to the ground. At Ranchero Casa Robos, a large spread just north of the village, they had killed four unsuspecting vaqueros and stolen enough fresh horses to make a fast getaway after robbing the mine payroll.

“So far you've done good, Silvar,” Fox said to Stampeto.

“Yeah, so far you've done good, Silvar,” Ozzie echoed, giving Stampeto a sharp stare.

“Everything has been just the way you said it would be,” Fox said.

“Yeah,” said Ozzie Cord, “everything has been the way—”

“All right, that's enough, Oz,” Fox cautioned his friend, cutting him short.

Ozzie fell into silent brooding.

Fox looked all around.

“What do you suppose happened to Paco?” he asked. “By now he should have killed them old folks, or stopped chasing them.”

“Paco gets too much cocaine, he is like a bulldog,”
said Stampeto. “He can't turn something loose. He no doubt is still chasing the old couple.”

Fox gave him a cold stare.

“Maybe you made a mistake sending him,” he said.

Ozzie started to repeat his words but caught himself and stopped.

“Want me to ride back—see if I can find him?” Ozzie said.

“No,” said Fox, still staring at Stampeto. “If anybody goes back it'll be Silvar here. And if he ain't back when we rob these French, Paco ain't getting paid. Fair enough, Silvar?”

“Yes, it is fair,” Silvar said, his dark eyes lowered as if in shame. “When Paco joins us, he will answer to me.”

“He better,” Fox warned. He nodded down at the valley floor far below them where a flatbed Mexican ore wagon made its way around the winding dusty trail. Men in straw sombreros and narrow Cornish mining hats lined the wagon's sides, their legs dangling in a stir of dust from the rolling wheels.

“Who's these flatheads?” Fox asked Stampeto.

“These are men who work claims outside the main yard,” he said. “The wagon brings them in on payday. They get their money and spend it on everything the company brings here to sell to them.” As an example he pointed off to a large tent being set up inside the yard.

“I see.” Fox nodded as he looked at women lounging half-dressed on blankets spread on the ground while they awaited their facility. A long
plank bar was being set up near a small payroll shack. Crates of whiskey and wooden beer kegs sat stacked and ready in the shade of a canvas overhang.

“At noon the guards will escort the paymaster and his assistant to that table.” Stampeto pointed to a long wooden table out in front of the payroll shack. “The paymaster will blow a whistle. Everybody will stop work and get in line for their pay.”

Fox smiled a little to himself.

“You've been watching this place for a while, Silvar,” he said quietly.

“I have spent many hours on this spot, seeing this month after month. We all longed to rob it, but our leader was too lazy to allow us to do so,” Stampeto said. “When we leave here with the money, the
federales
will hear of it and come after us. But they will not try too hard to catch us. They hate the French, like everybody else.” He smiled.

“Anything else you need to tell us?” Fox asked. “I don't want anybody surprising us once we get started.”

“No surprises,” said Stampeto, gazing down on the large rocky mining yard, the armed rifle guards walking back and forth inside a set of open iron gates. “Our only problem is to get inside. When they see us coming they will try to close the gates.”

“We won't let them do that,” Fox said, closely studying the scene on the hillside below them. “How many men will be standing in the line when the pay gets started?”

“I've seen the line stretch thirty, maybe forty men long,” said Stampeto.

“Not counting the ones already at the bar and inside the whore tent once the paying gets started,” said Fox.

“That's right,” said Stampeto, “not counting all the whores and drinkers.” He looked at Fox curiously. “Getting any ideas how we need to do this?” he asked.

“Yeah, I got it all worked out,” Fox said, backing his horse and turning away from Terese, Stampeto and Ozzie. “Break up your Perro Locos, have them meet down as close as they can to the gates without being seen. When Oz and I come riding through, all of you fall in beside us.”

Stampeto just stared at him for a moment.

“And that's it?” he asked finally.

“Mostly,” Fox said as if brushing the matter aside. “We go in shooting. You stick with Oz and me while the Perros Locos mix into the drinkers and the whores. The guards won't be so quick to take a chance shooting their workers.” He turned his horse and put it forward at a walk, leading Terese on her paint horse beside him.

“There you have it,” Ozzie said as Stampeto looked around at him. “You stay close to me, and do everything I tell you.”

“That's not what he told me,” Stampeto said.

“That's what
I'm
telling you,” Ozzie said, thumbing himself on the chest. He nodded toward the Mexican banditos. “Now let's go talk to the Perros Locos, get this thing under way.”

*   *   *

The leader of the mine guards, a big Norwegian named Arvid Asp, stood out in front of the payroll shack watching the line of employees move along in an orderly manner. He smoked a cigar as he twirled a two-foot-long hickory club by a leather hand strap looped around his wrist. But he stopped twirling the club when he saw one of his gate guards running up to him. Asp stood watching him curiously until the man slid to a halt with a concerned look on his face.

“Why are you running, Henri?” Asp queried in a stern tone, always striving to keep things orderly in the yard, especially while payroll was being distributed.

“We have two riders coming to our facility at a hard run,” Henri Deloof said, out of breath, having sprinted all the way from the front gates.

“Are they being pursued?” Asp asked. As he spoke he craned his neck and stared toward the front gate.

“I—I don't think so,” said Deloof. “But they are in a big hurry. We thought you should know.”

“Yes, of course, Henri,” said Asp. He started twirling his club again. “But settle down. We don't want our miners to see you so excited over two riders, do we?”

“No, we do not,” said Deloof, calming down quickly now that he saw his superior was not too concerned with the news.

As the two spoke, a Texan guard named Jep Rayburn came trotting from the gate.

“Now what . . . ?” said Asp. The club stopped twirling.

“Boss,” the Texan called out in a drawl, “we best shut the gates. There's three more fell in with them! Looks like an attack coming this way!”

Asp and Deloof looked at each other. The employees in line fell silent and looked off in the direction of the open gates.

“Yes, Jep!” Asp shouted, jerking the cigar from his mouth. “Tell Lobeau to shut the gates immediately!”

“You best come a-running, Asp,” said Lep. “Lobeau don't listen to nothing I say.”

“Consorn it all” said the big Norwegian. He and Deloof ran toward the front gates, Jep Rayburn falling in with them on their way. “What kind of imbeciles would attack a well-armed facility such as ours?”