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“Guatemala . . . woman, you sure are a long way from home,” Wes said. He studied her face. “You speak good English to be from so far away.”

  “I learn English from the French—from the religieuses.” Seeing the look on Wes’ face, she said, “From the monjas.”

  “The nuns,” Wes said, understanding now that she’d switched from French to Spanish. He nodded. “You learned your good English from the French. That makes sense, I reckon.”

  “Sí.” She smiled. “So I will ride with you as far as I can, to keep from riding alone. . . . Is all right?”

  “Yes, is all right,” Wes said, backing his horse a step to turn it to the trail. “Now, if there’s nothing else anybody needs to talk about, I’ll go find my scout and bring him back.”

  • • •

  The Ranger and Hardaway had heard the sound of gunfire and ridden on until they found two worn-out horses standing in the speckled shade of an ironwood tree clinging to the side of a shallow cutbank lining a dry creek bed. One horse’s saddle hung below its belly. The other still had part of the juniper bush tangled in its trailing reins.

  “Unless these cayuses left home searching for a better life in America, I’d say somebody’s in bad trouble,” Hardaway said, looking all around as he and the Ranger stopped and stepped down from their saddles. “This is from the gunshots, you suppose?”

  Sam just looked at him without replying. Instead of struggling with unfastening the horse’s cinch, he raised a knife from the well of his boot, cut the strap and let the saddle fall. Then he slipped the bit from the horse’s mouth and tossed the bridle away. As he unfastened the other horse’s cinch and dropped its bit, he gazed in the direction of the prints he and Hardaway had followed along the top of the ridgeline.

  Hardaway looked appraisingly at the scrawny horses, their battered and worn saddle ware.

  “Bandits, you reckon?” he asked as the Ranger came back to the barb and remounted.

  “I don’t know,” he said, turning the barb back to the tracks on the ground. “Their tracks are coming from the direction Claypool’s going in.”

  “Good chance they met but didn’t become friends,” Hardaway said as they rode on in Claypool’s tracks.

  They had ridden no more than a mile when they stopped their horses atop a rise and looked down at the stream and found a bandit’s body lying sprawled in the gravelly dirt. Out in the rushing current, another body bobbed in place, draped over a rock.

  Hardaway shook his head and crossed his wrists on his saddle horn.

  “See? I told you,” he said, watching the Ranger step back down from his saddle and lead the barb toward the water. “These desert bandits haunt these watering spots like vultures. Claypool is not a man they wanted to catch them lying in wait. He must’ve picked them off from a hundred yards out. They never knew what hit them.”

  The Ranger looked all around.

  “You can’t even see this stream from a hundred yards out, in any direction,” he said.

  Hardaway shrugged and stepped his horse down to the water without getting out of his saddle.

  “He spotted them from somewhere,” Hardaway said, “and when he did he put that Winchester of his to work.”

  The Ranger had been studying the ground. He saw an indented spot where someone had sat leaning back against a rock. He looked from that spot to where the dead Mexican lay. He walked over and closely examined the front of the dead man’s shirt.

  “This one was shot close up enough that it almost set his shirt afire.” He looked at Hardaway. “What kind of sidearm does Claypool carry?”

  “He carries a short-barreled gunman’s Colt, a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel,” Hardaway said. “Must figure like some that he gets it drawn faster than the five-and-a-half-incher—especially faster than the long cavalry barrel.” He eyed the big Colt on the Ranger’s hip. “That’s not to say you’re slow.”

  “Obliged, that’s kind of you,” the Ranger said drily. He nodded over toward a narrow dirt path where boot prints and hoofprints led away from the water. “Fast or not, he might have caught a bullet from one of these two. There’s blood on the ground in that direction.” He walked over and looked closer at the ground and saw the boot prints overlapped the hoofprints.

  “Jesus, what else?” said Hardaway.

  “His horse left without him,” the Ranger said. “My guess is it spooked and cut out. He’s off trying to catch it.”

  “Damn,” said Hardaway. “You got all that from staring at the dirt?”

  “I got it from paying attention, learning a little more every time I track a man,” Sam said. He stepped up into his saddle. “Claypool’s on foot, most likely with a bullet wound.”

  “A bullet wound won’t stop him—won’t even slow him down,” Hardaway said. He turned his horse to the narrow trail behind the Ranger.

  “Maybe being afoot will,” the Ranger replied, nudging his barb forward.

  Chapter 13

  When Carter Claypool looked over his shoulder past the dun, he saw twin rises of dust on the distant stretch of sandy flatlands behind him. He led the dun by its reins, detecting only the slightest limp in its walk. The horse’s limp was from pain, not serious damage. But it was enough to keep Claypool out of the saddle for a while. He knew Charlie Smith—knew the big dun was all heart. The horse would bust a gut for him, no question. If he’d asked it of him, the dun would carry him until it dropped. But with him already limping, Claypool knew that riding outside his normal gait could worsen the limp and bring on bigger problems.

  “I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that,” he said, seeing Charlie Smith’s eyes on him before he turned away from looking at the rising dust.

  At the sound of Claypool’s voice, the dun chuffed and piqued its ears, then let them relax as the two trudged on toward the hill line ahead of them. A patch of dried mud crusted the long graze along the horse’s rump. Dried blood glistened in long black streaks down the hind leg to its hoof.

  They walked on.

  Overhead, the sun had started its long arc toward the western horizon by the time man and horse reached the rocky slope at the base of the next hill line. Halfway up the nearly bald slope of rock, gravel and short cactus spurs, the meandering trail led him into a wide forest of young pine wrapped around the northern reach of the hill. Thirty yards inside the striped shade, Claypool stopped and looked all around.

  This will do, he told himself, eyeing back toward the rise of trail dust, judging how much closer the riders had gotten to him.

  He slid his Winchester from his saddle boot, grabbed his canteen and sat down on a low rock. The dun stood watching him as he drank tepid water, its hind leg tilted up onto the tip of its hoof.

  “Damn it, Charlie,” Claypool said after a moment. “It’s not like I did it on purpose.” It swished the water around and had started to take another sip when the voice of Wes Traybo spoke out from behind one of the larger pines.

  “You act like that horse is going to answer you someday,” Traybo said. He stepped his horse into sight from behind the tree cover.

  “Jesus, Wes, make yourself known!” said Claypool, letting out a startled breath after dropping his canteen and swinging his rifle around toward Traybo. Grabbing his canteen up from the ground, he capped it and set it aside.

  “I just did,” Wes said. He stepped his horse over and looked at the mud and dried blood along the dun’s rump. Then he looked down at Claypool.

  “So,” said Claypool with a short, wry grin, standing and dusting the seat of his trousers, “what brings you out this way?”

  Wes crossed his wrists on his saddle horn and gazed out through the pines at the twin rises of dust.

  “I thought I better get started finding myself a good trail scout,” he said. “Know of any?”

  Claypool let out a breath as if considering it.

  “None that I honestly
feel I can give high reference to,” he said. “Most of the good ones have been hung, else they’re just waiting to be.”

  “You know this is the second time I’ve had to come back for you in as many days?”

  “It’s been two days?” Claypool said, looking surprised. “Where does the time go?”

  Wes chuffed and shook his head a little.

  “Who’ve you got out there?” he asked, gazing through the pines toward the rising dust.

  “Beats me,” said Claypool, stepping over to Charlie Smith and hanging his canteen from his saddle horn.

  “Trail scout, you say?” Wes said with a skeptical look.

  Claypool gestured at the Winchester in his right hand.

  “I was just getting ready to knock on their door,” he said.

  “Save it for now,” said Traybo. “I spotted a federale patrol less than three miles back.”

  “This’ll make twice I’ve had the Ranger and Fatch Hardaway in my sights and had to let them go,” Claypool said. “I’d just as well ride back and make friends with them.”

  “What makes you think it’s them?” Wes asked.

  “I waylaid Garand and his detectives on the lower trail,” said Claypool. “They wasn’t about to climb that hillside. But the Ranger would. I looked back later and saw him and Hardaway riding a long way behind me. I figure this is them.”

  “How hard did you hit Garand’s posse?” Wes asked.

  “Killed two of them,” Claypool said. “Shot one through the foot.” Seeing the look on Wes’ face, he added, “It wasn’t something I wanted to do. But this is where we are now. They keep coming, we’ve got no choice.”

  Wes Traybo nodded, understanding.

  “You’ve had a busy day,” he remarked.

  “There’s more,” Claypool said. “I had a couple of Mexican bandits try to upend me. I had to kill them too.”

  Wes shook his head again.

  “Federales, posses, detectives, bandits, lawmen,” he said. “I’ve never seen this trail so busy. We ought to open a saloon.”

  “Weather’s good,” said Claypool. “I guess nobody wants to stay indoors.”

  “That must be it,” said Wes. He reached a hand down for Claypool to take. “The bandits shot Charlie Smith?” he asked.

  “No, I shot him,” Claypool said grimly. He took Wes’ hand and swung up behind his saddle, the dun’s reins in his free hand.

  “Why? What’d he do?” Wes asked.

  “He was about to be led off by one of the bandits,” said Claypool.

  “So you shot him?” Wes said.

  “I shot the bandit. The bullet came out wrong and grazed Charlie Smith. The way he’s acted, you’d think I did it on purpose.”

  “You patched him up, I see,” said Wes. “That ought to be worth something to him.”

  “Let’s not talk about it right now, Wes,” Claypool said in a lowered voice. “He’s acting salty enough about it as it is.”

  Wes gave a slight chuckle; he tapped his boots to his horse’s sides and put it forward up the sloping, treed hillside at a walk.

  “I heard three pistol shots,” Wes said over his shoulder. “Only two of them come from your short-barreled Colt.”

  “You’ve a keen ear for my gun,” remarked Claypool. “One of the bandits carried a big old French pistol. He only got one shot off. It sounded like a rock hitting a tin roof.”

  “Yep, I heard that,” said Wes.

  “How’s Ty?” Claypool asked.

  “Coming along well enough, it appears,” said Wes. “We might have some problems with the doctor and the girl, though.”

  “How’s that?” Claypool asked.

  “They neither one act like they want to leave,” Wes said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I can’t blame them,” said Claypool. “You have to admit we live some fine and dandy lives.”

  “I’d be the first to say so,” Wes agreed wryly.

  • • •

  In the afternoon, the five riders stopped at a turn in the switchback of the upward-reaching trail. In the cooling shade of massive boulders stuck deep into the gravelly hillside, they relaxed in their saddles and looked back in the direction Wes had taken earlier.

  “He should have been back by now, with or without Carter,” Rubens muttered. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Yeah, we hear you,” said Ty, sitting atop his own horse, the woman’s horse sidling close to him. “You’ve been saying it every five minutes since he was gone an hour.” He gave a weak grin beneath his new hat brim. One of the sacks stuffed with bank money hung across his horse’s rump. Behind Bugs Trent’s saddle was the other sack.

  “I don’t like us being broke up like this,” said Rubens. “Especially not along this trail. This Old Mexico Trail is fast. You can get in trouble here, if you’re not careful—so much trouble that you never get out of it,” he added.

  As Rubens spoke, Dr. Bernard stepped down from his saddle and started to lead his horse off the trail and around behind one of the boulders.

  “Hey, now! Hold it there, Doc,” Rubens said. “Just where do you think you’re going?” He raised his rifle from across his lap and swung the tip of the barrel toward the young doctor.

  Bernard stopped and turned and looked Rubens up and down.

  “With everyone’s permission, I’m going into the brush,” he said calmly. He gave a collective nod to the four faces looking at him.

  “Into the brush?” said Rubens, looking nervous and uncertain.

  “Jesus, Baylor,” Bugs chuckled. “He’s going to re- lieve himself. You need to settle down some.”

  Rubens let out a breath.

  “What I need is a drink,” he said, wiping a trembling palm across his forehead.

  Without saying a word, the doctor opened the medical satchel hanging from his shoulder, took out a silver flask and pitched it to him. Rubens unscrewed the cap with nervous fingertips.

  “Obliged, Doc,” he said. As he took a swallow, Dr. Bernard led his horse away quietly into the brush.

  “Still,” Rubens said. “Shouldn’t somebody go with him?”

  “He knows how to do it,” Bugs cut in, with a slim grin.

  “I mean to make sure he comes back, damn it,” said Rubens. But he relaxed, feeling the warm surge of whiskey in his chest.

  “He’ll be back,” Ty said confidently. “He likes riding with us, I can tell it.” He looked at Rosetta. “So does she. Don’t you?” he asked her.

  “Sí, I do,” Rosetta said. Recalling what Wes Traybo had said, she added, “I like to keep you smiling.”

  “Oh? Well, gracias,” said Ty with a curt nod to her. To Rubens he said, “Besides, where’s the doc going to go out here?”

  “I don’t know.” Rubens shrugged. “Maybe I needed that drink worse than I thought. Hell, if you trust him, I expect he goes off suiting me.”

  “I trust him,” Ty reassured Rubens as the silver flask was raised to the older gunman’s lips again. “I would say I’d trust him with my life, except that I already have.”

  “Yeah, well, like I said,” said Rubens, “if he suits you he damn sure suits me—”

  His words stopped short as eight federale riflemen sprang to their feet in the brush surrounding the trail. Two more stood with pistols pointed and cocked.

  “Nobody move, you sons-of-beeches gringos!” shouted a tall, lean Mexican in a tan, sweat-damped tunic. He held a nickel-plated revolver raised and cocked.

  The four riders froze under the sight of the Mexican soldiers’ big French rifles cocked and aimed at them from close range.

  “If they move, blow away their damn gringo heads,” the tall Mexican officer bellowed. “If any of them look like they are even thinking of making a move, shoot them so many times—”

  “Hey, we’re
not moving, hoss,” Ty said, cutting him off. “You’ve got us cold. Congratulations.” He glanced around, his hands chest high. Bugs sat in his saddle with his Colt lying on his lap, his rifle in its boot. Rubens sat staring, the silver flask in his hand, its cap hanging by a thin chain. His rifle lay across his lap, but Ty could see that any sudden move they made right then would only get them and Rosetta killed where they sat.

  “Good, you do not want to die,” the officer said, stepping forward, the big nickel-plated revolver held out and aimed at arm’s length. He wagged the gun barrel toward the sack of money lying behind Ty’s saddle. “Juan,” he called out to one of the pistol men, “untie the sack from behind his saddle and pull it to the ground.” He gave Ty a gold-toothed grin and said with a gleam of greed shining in his dark eyes, “It is full of money, no?”

  “You mean this sack?” Ty said, giving a backward nod toward the sack as the rifleman stepped forward and untied it. “Why, yes, I believe it is. But it’s not mine. It belongs to my brother. I’ve been watching it for him.”

  The captain gave a nod. The soldier untied the sack and held it up and open for the captain to see.

  “It is much money, Capitán,” the soldier said, as if in awe.

  The captain nodded and looked back at Ty Traybo.

  “Is that your brother in the brush behind the boulder?” he asked.

  “There’s nobody in the brush,” Ty said with a shrug of his good shoulder.

  “He is armed, no?” said the officer, not buying Ty’s lie.

  “Armed to the teeth,” Ty said, having to give up one false claim but jumping right back with another.

  “Heco, go get the other gringo out of the brush,” the officer said to the other pistol man, his grin turned sly. “He is unarmed. Bring him and his horse to me.” He looked back at Ty. “I have never been to America,” he said, stepping over to the sack on the ground as Juan jerked the other sack from behind Rubens’ saddle. “But it must be such a wonderful, joyful place—everybody who comes from there carries such huge sacks of money.” He grinned knowingly, wagging his nickel-plated revolver. “But always you are in a hurry, you gringos,” he added, “to leave such a wonderful, joyous place behind you.”