Scalpers (5 page)

“I seen him,” said a veteran scalper, Emilio Siebaugh. “He left here with the idiot, Ozzie. They had whores under their arms.”

“And bottles of rye in their hands,” a scalper named Early Doss put in. Doss was another scalper who'd been with Erskine Cord when Pridemore took over the bounty contract, after hearing the Ranger had shot Cord dead.

Pridemore nodded and looked around at his drunken scalpers. They were a hardened and dangerous crew, as were all mercenaries he'd ever met. Now that he'd collected the bounty on the Apache scalps, he knew that once these men had their money in hand, they might very well start drifting away, back across the desert floor. He didn't want to let that happen. He needed to keep them busy, keep them banded together. He looked back at Early Doss.

“Give Fox and the idiot time enough to get their
beans baked, then go find them. We've got business in the morning that requires clear heads and steady hands.” He grinned slyly.

“Yeah? What's that, Bigfoot?” Siebaugh asked.

Pridemore looked around again, this time noting that there were only three drinkers in the tent who were not members of his group. He drew a long, heavy Walker Colt that he called Ol' Dan Webster from his waist and aimed it at the three. “You plugs beat a path out of here. Nobody likes having you near their whiskey.”

Two of the men gave him a stunned look, but offered no argument. They turned away from their half-finished shots and beers and hurried out of the tent into the driving rain. But the third man, an older man with a tangled unruly beard, only stood staring back at Pridemore.

“Are you wanting to die, or just one of them fools who likes getting real close to it before backing away?” Pridemore thumbed back the Walker's hammer and pointed the gun at the man's head.

“Hadn't gave it no thought,” the man said quietly, calmly. “I'm looking for work—thought we might palaver about it some.”

Pridemore began feeling the weight of the heavy outstretched Colt right away. But he kept it leveled.

“Hear that, men?” said Pridemore. “He wants to palaver with me about a job.”

Siebaugh stepped forward, looking the stranger up and down, scrutinizing him closely.

“Bigfoot, I know this old man,” he said. “He's
Deacon Sickles, from Alabama. He cut scalps when most of us were still swinging from a teat.”

Pridemore let the Walker down, tiring from its weight.

“Are you, now . . . ?” he said to the old man. “I've heard of you too. I heard you not only cut scalp, you're known to take face and all.”

“I have done that some,” the old man said. “It's mostly a novelty item . . . for foreign dignitaries and the like.”

“And you're seeking employment?” said Pridemore. He laid the Walker on the bar, leaving it cocked. Bertha and Diamond Jim watched closely.

“Indeed I am,” said Sickles.

Pridemore raised a finger and smiled at the old scalper.

“Give us just a minute here, Deacon Sickles,” he said. “I'm sure we've got room for a man like you.” He picked the Walker up and let it hang in his hand as he turned away from the bar. He looked back at Sickles over his shoulder as he crossed the muddy floor. “Face and all, huh?”

“That is correct, Mr. Pridemore,” Sickles said.

“Just call me Bigfoot,” Pridemore said pleasantly. “Everybody does.” He stopped at the faro table, grabbed Diamond Jim by his face, raised the Walker and shot him through the heart. Blood splattered around the fresh bullet hole in the side of the tent. Rain blew in immediately.

Behind the bar, Bertha Buttons started to reach down for her shotguns.

“Huh-uh, Bertha,” said Pridemore, swinging around and pointing the smoking Walker at her. “Penza wants me to kill you both. But I'd sooner you be in this world than out of it.” He gave her a stiff grin.

“So—so would I,” she said in a shaky voice. She withdrew her hand slowly from under the bar top. Pridemore looked around at his men, who stood staring curiously. He shrugged.

“A man would be a fool to kill a big strapping redhead like this one,” he said. He gestured Bertha from behind the bar. “Come around here, Big Darling. Let's get a better look at you.” As Bertha eased around the bar toward him, he said to the others, “Have fun while you can, men. Tomorrow we've got all kinds of work ahead of us.”

In the early-morning light the Ranger had caught sight of trail dust drifting across the flatlands on the far horizon, where sandy bottom slopes reached upward into rocky hill lines. When he drew his dun and the cart beside him to a halt, Ria Cerero reined the barb down on his other side and searched the distant flatlands with him. The young woman sat on her board perch on the front edge of the cart and watched them both quietly.

“What is it?” Ria asked Sam.

“Trail dust,” Sam said without turning to her, “less than an hour out.”

“How do you know it is trail dust?” the woman asked.

“It's just something you know after a while,” Sam said, still scouring the distance as he drew a battered telescope from inside his bedroll behind his saddle. He extended the field lens, raised it to his right eye and searched for the drift of dust again, not finding it. He went on to explain as he searched, “There's not enough wind to pull dust. . . . If it was the wind causing it, it would be a lot wider.”
He paused, then added, “Anyway, dust doesn't stir up and drift without a reason.”

Ria watched as the Ranger lowered the telescope, collapsed it between his palms and stuck it back behind his saddle.

“But could it be wild horses, even elk?” she asked, not wanting to consider that it might be Indians.

“Could be, but I doubt it,” Sam replied, not wanting to spend any time discussing probabilities. He reined his dun to the right, leading the mule cart toward the slope of the hill line alongside them, less than a mile away. “Let's ride up into the rocks and keep moving.”

“It is Apache!” Ria said with a slight gasp of fear in her voice. She reined the barb horse quickly and sidled it closer to the Ranger.

“No,” Sam said, “Apache don't make dust on their trail if they can keep from it—especially when the Mexican government has scalp hunters killing them for bounty. Apache ride wide of anything soft enough to leave a track, or loose enough to stir dust.” He nudged the dun forward.

“You know a lot about the Apache?” Ria asked as they rode along, the girl sitting watching them from her perch.

“No, ma'am,” Sam said sidelong to her. “Just enough to keep me alive, so far.” He glanced back out and once again saw a thin curtain of dust rise and drift. “I have learned to do the two main things they do out here—keep quiet and stay out of sight.”

They crossed the short stretch of flatland
separating them from the hill line and put their horses and mule cart upward onto a path that meandered and weaved its way among chimney rock and large boulder. For the better part of an hour they climbed the path until it widened into a trail running along the hillside three hundred feet above the flatlands. The lank mule pulled the cart along steadily, confidently; yet Sam knew the steepness of the hillside would not allow the cart to move any farther up its rigid spine. This was terrain for the sure of hoof, the nimble of foot. The land held no forbearance for man's wheeled endeavor.

“We need to walk,” he said to Ria and Ana, the three of them having stopped in the shadowed cover of a cliff overhang. “There's likely an easier trail father up, but we'll never make it with the cart.”

“Then—then you think we must leave the cart behind?” Ria asked.

“No, ma'am,” Sam said, swinging down from his saddle. “We'll keep moving right along on this lower trail. Whoever's riding toward us, at least we know they're there. We'll listen and watch for them. If we need to, we'll lie low and let them pass without seeing us.”

Ria swung down from the barb; Ana stood up off from her board and started to climb over the side of the cart. Seeing the Ranger step over toward the mule cart, Ria rushed past him and reached up and helped Ana down before he got the chance. Realizing the woman's distrust of him toward her daughter was still there, Sam stepped wide of the two and
took hold of the mule's harness and steadied the cart.

As Ana collected herself and brushed her black hair back from her face, Ria gave the Ranger an apologetic look.

“Forgive me, Ranger,” she said. “I am still fearful for my very young daughter, as you can see. Even though you have done so much for us, it is hard for me to let go—”

“Ma'am, you needn't apologize,” Sam said, cutting her off. He turned loose of the mule and rubbed its coarse, bony muzzle. The mule twitched its scarred ears and stared straight ahead.

“
Gracias
, Ranger,” Ria said, her arm around Ana's thin shoulders, “for understanding so much.”

“You're both welcome,” Sam said, a little embarrassed. He nodded and looked back and forth between the two of them. “Let's keep moving,” he added, taking the reins to his dun and the mule cart. “Keep as quiet as we can.” He drew horse and mule cart along with one hand, his Winchester in the other.

They had moved along in silence for another half hour when he heard the faint clack of hoof against stone on the trail ahead of them. Motioning the women and the two horses off the edge onto the rocky hillside, Sam pulled the mule cart behind a boulder and stood watching from cover as a Mexican guidon banner fluttered into sight above rocks six feet tall.

Good enough. . . .

Sam breathed deep, relieved. He reached his
sombrero out and waved it up and down as a
federale
front scout rode into sight around a mound of large rocks piled up behind a huge boulder.

“Hello the trail,” he called out.

The scout, startled, jerked his horse's reins hard, causing the animal to rear slightly before he settled it.

“Come out, show yourself!” he demanded toward the Ranger's sweat-stained sombrero. “Raise your hands
high
and keep them high!” he added as if in afterthought.

Sam leaned his Winchester against the rock and loosened his Colt in its holster out of habit. He placed his sombrero back atop his head.

“Coming out,” he said, sidestepping slowly into sight, his hands raised above his hat brim. “I'm Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack. I'm here tracking a wanted man.”

The uniformed scout jumped down from his saddle and started walking forward, his big French revolver already drawn and cocked toward the Ranger. Behind him, Sam saw the red, white and green guidon come around the rocks, a Mexican captain and his sergeant riding abreast of the man carrying it. Seeing Sam in the trail, the captain and sergeant halted; the captain raised a gloved hand. Beside him the sergeant called out to the two columns of following horsemen.

“Surround this man,” the captain told his sergeant, still surprised at the Ranger appearing as if out of nowhere.

As Sam watched with his hands high, the sergeant led the two columns forward and formed a
half circle around him. The scout stood with his revolver still aimed at Sam's head. Sam looked all around at the circling soldiers.

“Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack,” he repeated, seeing the captain ride forward slowly and stop his horse in front of the surrounding soldiers.

“I find this one hiding behind the rock, Capitán Penza,” the scout pointed out quickly.

“I called out to you,” Sam said. “I identified myself.”

The scout started to say more, but the captain silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“I saw him call out to you, Corporal,” he said to the lying scout. He gave the soldier an angry glance. The soldier stepped back and shut up. Captain Penza turned and looked at the badge on Sam's chest. “What are you doing here, Ranger? Have you run out of outlaws to hunt down in your Arizona Territory?”

A ripple of laughter rose from the men. The captain gave a smug grin.

“No, Captain,” Sam said. “I'm on the trail of an assassin who's traveling with scalp hunters your country has a contract with. He had a hand in killing the sheriff in Mesa Grande.”

“Oh . . . ?” The captain's interest piqued right away at the mention of the scalp hunters. Sam took note of it as Penza continued. “These mercenaries—
scalpers
as you call them—are wild and dangerous, very hard to control,” he said, shaking his head. “They brought in Apache receipts to me yesterday
at Iron Point. Is the assassin you seek among them?”

“I believe he is, Captain,” Sam said. “But I also want to show you what I brought along to prove that your mercenaries are not only killing Apache but scalping anybody they can whose hair is black enough.”

“What do you bring me?” the captain said. He straightened in his saddle and looked all around as if searching the rocks.

“It's in a mule cart back there,” Sam said, lowering his hands a little, gesturing behind the rock. “I've got a rifle leaning there too.” He gestured a hand toward the rocks on the hillside. “There are two women I sent to hide in the rocks, until I saw who it was coming.”

The captain looked at his sergeant seated on his horse beside him, then back at the Ranger.

“Very well, Ranger,” he said. “Bring out the two women . . . then show us what proof you bring to me. If my nation's laws are being broken, I will see to it these scoundrels pay.”

*   *   *

In moments the mule cart and the horses stood on the trail. The two women shied back from the soldiers and tried to keep out of sight around the rear corner of the cart. Sam told the mounted captain about the two assassins, how one of them was Erskine Cord, the one who had held the contract with the Mexican government. He told him how Cord's nephew had broken out of jail and gotten away.
Yet, assassination and jailbreak aside, the captain's main concern seemed to be that the scalpers had scalped innocent Mexicans and harmless Indians along both sides of the border.

“And this is the best proof I can give you, Captain Penza,” Sam said. He upended a burlap sack and let Mickey Cousins' half-scalped head fall to the ground. He righted the face upward with the toe of his boot for the captain to take a better look.

“Santa Madre . . . ,”
the captain said. He crossed himself and looked at his sergeant for verification.

The sergeant stepped down from his saddle and stood over the severed head.

“Yes,
mi Capitán
,” he replied grimly, staring down at the blood-streaked head in the dirt. “I have known Mickey Cousins for a long time. . . . This is him.” He looked at the Ranger. “The white streak is missing from his hair. But I saw one of the scalps—I mean
receipts
—with a white streak in it.” He shook his head. “It looked familiar, but I never imagined it to belong to this man. Mickey Cousins was a good scout.”

“Yes, I too recall a receipt that had a white streak in it,” the captain remarked, pondering the half-scalped head. Mickey Cousins' eyes were barely parted and seemed to stare up at him. “Who cut off his head off?” he asked Sam.

“I did that,” Sam said. “I had no choice. At the time we had a badly wounded man with us. Wolves were getting bolder at the smell of his blood. I had to leave either Mickey Cousins' body or the wounded
man behind. I knew if I started shooting at the wolves with a rifle, Apache would ride in from every direction.”

“It is a wise thing you do, Ranger,” the captain said. “Where is this wounded man?”

“He's dead and buried back alongside the trail,” Sam said, jerking his head in that direction. “There's a couple of Lipans dead back at the water hole too,” he added. “I expect the desert wolves have eaten well this whole trip.” He looked at the captain, sensing that something was bothering him. But he had no idea what it could be.

“And now you are continuing on to Iron Point,” the captain asked him, “even though the mercenaries will no doubt be gone by the time you arrive?”

“I'm on their trail until I get the man I'm looking for,” Sam said. “I'm also taking these women there where it's safe, so they can rest up and be on their way. Are you headed back to Iron Point now?”

“Yes, right away,” said Captain Penza. “I must stop these scalpers and see to it they pay for their crimes.” He gestured down at Mickey Cousins' head. “This in itself is enough reason to hang them. There is no way of knowing how many other innocent people have died at their hands.”

Sam watched him. Yes, something had the man troubled, he was certain of it.

“I'm obliged if we can ride back with you,” he said. “It would make the women feel better having more guns around.”

For a moment the captain appeared to have a
hard time considering the Ranger's request. Finally he said, “No, I am sorry, Ranger, that is out of the question.”

Out of the question?

Sam noted that even the sergeant looked a little taken aback by his captain's words.

“It would slow us down too much,” Penza offered, seeing the look in both his sergeant's and the Ranger's eyes. “We must hurry to catch these men.” He looked at the sergeant, then back at the Ranger.